


Play It on Repeat Until I Fall Asleep

by SongAboutExiles



Series: Play It on Repeat Until I Fall Asleep [1]
Category: Leverage, White Collar
Genre: Barely Legal Neal, But Sometimes Bad Guys Make Incredibly Awesome Bad Guys, Eliot Is Legit Violent, Eliot Is a Sucker for Sweet Boys in Trouble, F/M, Gore, Hardison Is Sweet, M/M, Mayhem, Multi, NOT Dubcon, Neal Is Legit Conniving, Parker is weird, Post-Anklet, Post-Series, Post-breakup, Pre-Series, Sex for Favors, Sometimes Bad Guys Make the Best Good Guys, Sorta Kidfic, Threesome - F/M/M, Violence, bad behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-08 17:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1949382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SongAboutExiles/pseuds/SongAboutExiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Neal was ever caught by Peter, he and Eliot Spencer met up on a few memorable occasions, but the timing was never right. Then Eliot got involved with Nate and the crew, Neal was sent to prison, and his life took a very different turn. But that's the thing about life--it keeps turning, and sometimes it can bring you right back where you started. Where you should have been all along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1--In a Deep, Dark Hole I Waited for Your Light

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. **I gave up on pretending this story is structured through prologues and then main-story action. It's just a hella-multi-chapter story that grew out of all control, but it spans a long period from the time Neal was 18 years old through a relationsip with Peter and El through a bad breakup, then onward from there. It jumps around in time a bit, but I try to be very clear about when and where we are, and who's in the scene.  
> 2\. Title from Arctic Monkeys' "Do I Wanna Know?" which I cannot hear without thinking of Eliot and Neal slow dancing in a rather obscene fashion. Yeah, my brain, I dunno either.  
> 3\. What am I doing writing a crazy-ass crossover fic that no one's gonna want to read? I don't know that either, but geeze, brain. Discipline? No?

Neal's day, it was safe to assert, had started well and ended on a decidedly down note. In a foreign country on a forged passport, eighteen years old and grifting a young prince in a place where Sharia law was enforced...it had not been his best plan. Well, it was a great plan on paper, truthfully, but who expects the fucking religious police to break down the door and drag him off his mark's cock? And was Prince Agarwal here? Nope, and no help expected from that quarter. Daddy's holy rollers for hire were only interested in the foreigner who led the King's foolish son astray with his sinful ways.

 _Fuck. They are actually going to hang me._ He shook his aching head to clear it, then tried to get his battered body into a slightly less agonized position so that he could concentrate on a plan, not on how much his caned ass and that broken rib hurt. 

_Fact check._

One. He was chained up in the sub-level to the palace, tantalizingly close to the vaults that had been his reason for this job in the first place. Two. His wrists were cuffed over his head to a concrete support pillar, and, three, he'd been stripped to skin and searched thoroughly, even up his ass and inside his mouth. They'd found everything. Chance of escape? He had to put it at zero. 

_Long drop, short stop._ It made his belly clench with dread. For all his misdeeds, he'd never considered himself an evil person, never someone who deserved to die. Maybe that was just youthful arrogance talking. Maybe this was exactly what he deserved for being a lying whore. Hell, maybe all of this would be easier if he could just convince himself that he was getting his just desserts for his life of crime.

The last thing he expected was someone just as out of place as he was to come creeping through the ugly, shadowy concrete room clearly heading toward the damned vaults. That the someone was a compact, solidly muscular man not too much older than himself, dressed in tight black with no weapons on him whatsoever and possessing a strangely kind face to go along with the gorgeous body and oh god he was rambling in the head and going to die...

"Who the fuck did you piss off?" The man hissed, his voice gravelly and rather delicious and _I think they hit me in the head._

"The religious police. Can you get me out of here? I can help you." Said the naked teenager chained to a column. 

"Sorry, kid, not in the timeline." The man moved past him, and Neal felt the chance to save himself slipping through his fingers.

"I know the combination. Shave at least ten minutes off your timeline, even after accounting for getting me loose and finding me some pants." That should do it.

"You were here for the vault, too." It made the man stop walking, but he was obviously waiting for an even better deal. Of course he was. Neal was learning this life with a quickness born of desperation. 

"I'll give you the combination, and the best fuck you ever had." Not that he had any indication that the burly stranger was into boys, but he'd found out another thing very quickly, out on his own--few men turn down that kind of offer, no matter what they say their orientation might be. And even beat up, when Neal spread his legs to let the other man see the goods on offer, he knew from the speculative, interested little noise that he'd won.

No dying today.

"You're lucky it's been awhile," the man growled, prowling off to the lockers on the far side of the room to find a pair of spare black fatigue pants that might have a chance of staying on the boy without falling right off his skinny hips. He tossed them down onto Neal's lap and made impressively short work of the cuffs. 

Not wanting to slow the man down and earn a trip right back to the gallows, Neal swallowed the pain when he stood up and pulled on the pants as fast as his body would allow. "Okay, so that's the dummy vault." He gestured to the one on the right. "The real one is the one on the left."

"One of them's fake? You think I'm gonna buy that?" Did the man do anything other than growl? It was kind of sexy, but also a little terrifying.

"You really don't have time to doubt me on it, even on your original timeline. Did you think you were going to crack both of them that fast?" Neal prowled silently over to the real vault, and keyed in the ten-digit code quickly, pulling the information effortlessly from his mind. "Besides, there is literally no way that I will ever be able to get back into this country, even if I can get out." 

The second part of the mechanism was a thumbprint, and the stranger eyed him warily. "I have a thing for that..." He waved some piece of technology that was supposed to fool the scanner.

"I have something better." He waved his thumb and then put it right on the pad. The scan lit up green, and he swung the door open. "Go for the bearer bonds and the jewels." Neal couldn't say his pride was undamaged as he stood aside and let the stranger reap the rewards of a month's hard work. He crossed his arms over his chest and started to review what he would do after he'd fulfilled his obligations to the stranger. The first goal, of course, was to get the hell out of this country and back to France.

"How the hell did you get your thumbprint in that thing?" The other man started to shove millions in resources into a large black duffle. Neal calculated that a bag that big could hold thirty million or so in bearer bonds and jewelry. Not a bad haul, and it would have been enough to help him get better established, some solid identities. Good enough clothes and a good enough background that he wouldn't have to take jobs that ended him up on his back or his knees.

"The Prince likes to fuck in here. Frequently." It had been easy to memorize the young man's code, and then use it to add his thumbprint into the biometric database. 

The man's lip curled in distaste, but Neal let it roll off his back. Yeah, yeah, among the professional criminal set, those who literally used their bodies to grift were considered one step above smash-and-grabbers. But he was young, pretty, and talented. It wasn't going to be this way forever, and it wasn't like he enjoyed it. 

The whole job was over in less than two minutes, and then it was the moment of truth--was this stranger going to clock him over the head, chain him up and leave him here to die, or follow through with his deal? Neal knew that if he decided to renege, there wasn't a damn thing he could do. The man moved like a goddamned predator. 

A goddamned predator who grabbed his arm tight and half-dragged him out of the sub-level the way he'd come in, through the tunnel up to the surface. The bodies of half a dozen guards were littering the passage, and Neal chose to assume they were alive. It was too dark to tell for certain.

They came out into the cool, crisp desert night, and Neal drew a huge breath of the fresh air, heedless of the pain it caused his broken rib. The sand even felt good under his bare feet as he let the man drag him over to a cleverly concealed, somewhat antique jeep. Once they were away, Neal melted into the passenger seat, shivering and wrapping around himself for warmth. "Thank you for honoring the deal." 

"You made good on your part." He shrugged. "Name's Eliot Spencer." The weird thing was, Neal was sure that was the man's real name.

"Neal Caffrey." It was as close to real as he could get. 

"You gonna get better at this, or am I gonna hear about you getting your ass killed trying to honey trap a man in a country where men fucking is a capital offence?"

"I think I'll try getting better." He had no reason to, but he actually liked this Eliot Spencer. He liked the man's anger, and the man's gruffness, and the growly voice, and the strong forearms gripping the wheel like he'd just as soon strangle the infuriating kid next to him. "And I haven't actually made good on the whole deal." He slid a hand over to Eliot's hard thigh, then leaned over to brush a soft kiss just beneath the man's ear.

"Look, kid, you're beat up, and I'm not a child molester." Noble words, but Neal could feel him shifting in his seat, muscle bunching and relaxing under his hand, which only made him squeeze the taut flesh.

"Good thing I'm not a child, and that I have a really high pain tolerance." He murmured the words into Eliot's ear, then followed them with a graze of his teeth. 

"Fuck. Look...the fact that you were desperate enough to offer is what made me take you up on it, not because I want you to fuck me out of obligation." Well, this guy was confusing.

"And yet you want to fuck me so hard I can't close my legs for a week, don't you? Maybe start off by shoving your cock down my throat? You know that I can take whatever you want to dish out, even if it's rough, even if it's not how you'd treat anyone else." Any real lover. His thumb wandered over to where Eliot's now-hard dick was trapped along the side of his thigh, circling the tip and then stroking over the length. Damn, the man was hung. If he weren't in pain, this wouldn't even be the remotest kind of hardship.

"It's cute that you think you can handle me." There was that growl again, and despite his current sorry state, Neal couldn't help the way it made his own cock twitch, his hole do that little clench and release thing that made him want to get filled like nobody's business.

"I wanna handle you." Hell, he wanted to go the full monty and **service** the man. Like a good little whore with the best client ever. 

Eliot looked over at him then, eyes crinkling and a devious smile on his lips. "See, now, that's better." 

Jesus, the man had been working him up on purpose. Maybe he should be annoyed, but instead he was even more aroused. "You're a clever bastard." 

"Also a horny one. Christ, no one should be as pretty as you after being chained up naked in a fucking dungeon. How hurt are you?" 

Neal got several things from those three sentences. Eliot was seriously hot for him. Eliot thought he was pretty, and that made him grin and blush, all at once. And Eliot wanted to know if he'd gotten himself raped in addition to just beaten up. Which was...interesting. Why would he even care? Neal was a sure thing.

"All you need to know," Neal's clever hand got Eliot's zipper down, then snuck in to pull the trapped flesh out into the cool night air. He squeezed the base, then stroked, gathering the precome over the wide head and rubbing it in. "Is that I'm good to go." 

"Fuck." Eliot's hips rode up before he got control over himself again. "Driving over the fucking desert here, Neal. Put that thing away before you get us killed." 

"Or you could just stop. We're far enough away. I could get this gorgeous cock in my mouth and suck you off right here. Wouldn't even count it against the deal." His tongue touched his lower lip, but he did unhand Eliot's prick. Of course, he only did that so he could bring his thumb to his mouth and suck off the slick that was coating it.

"Okay, have it your way." That was more a snarl than a growl, and it went straight to Neal's balls. The car was stopped abruptly, off the crappy unpaved road, headlights cut. "But make it fast." 

Neal wanted to say that as far gone as Eliot was, of course it'd be fast, but why tempt fate? He wasn't going to tease in any case; he just got himself into position, turning sideways and kneeling on his seat so he could brace a hand against Eliot's headrest, avoiding the gear shift and parking brake that would otherwise have not been very kind to his fucking irritatingly painful rib. Everything hurt though, and at that point all you could do was make sure you didn't aggravate it more.

His hand, small and deft and long-fingered, looked pale and tiny wrapped around Eliot's dick, and that was, well, hot. So was bending forward and taking it into his mouth, an inch at a time, until he'd shoved it all into his throat, breathing like a blown horse through his nose. There it was, a heavy hand in his soft hair, fisting, and Eliot's voice was even growlier and deeper and Jesus was that ever hot. "Fuck, kid, yeah...now fucking suck already." 

Jesus, yes. That he could do. Neal found a rhythm, suckling strongly enough to hollow his cheeks, eyes at half-mast as he bobbed his head up and down. He half-expected Eliot to grab his hair harder and fuck his mouth, but it never happened. His hand stayed in his hair, with that slight, firm grip but he didn't force anything at all. He didn't have to, since Neal was moving fast, keeping up that tight, slick delicious suction with every stroke of his lips and tongue. 

It was fast all right, and Neal's jaw hadn't even had time to get tired before Eliot growled louder and his hand tightened as he spent himself. Neal worked to swallow every drop, and it was...satisfying. He wished he wasn't so sore so that he could properly enjoy it. When it passed, Eliot released his grip and even stroked his hair while Neal pulled off and tucked him back into his pants. 

How the fuck could a killer like this be so...sweet? Not that Neal would say that out loud. Sweetness only went so far. 

Soon enough, they were back en route, and Eliot rummaged through a bag in the back seat with one hand, pulling out a black fleece pullover for Neal, and a spare pair of boots that were far too big but still warm. "Thanks." 

"Don't mention it." Neal had to smile because he knew immediately that Eliot meant 'really, do NOT MENTION IT.' It was endearing, and he couldn't afford to be...endeared. Whatever. "What?" Eliot asked, mouth quirked.

"Not a thing. Not mentioning a thing, not doing a thing, just sitting here, riding back into the city." Glad to be alive and free and with someone who was not at all a monster, even if he believed himself to be.

The rest of the ride was quiet, and that was a mixed blessing. Neal was exhausted physically and emotionally, but he couldn't let himself relax just yet. Sure, Eliot seemed like he was as honorable as it got in this line of work, but part of him still expected to end up shoved out of the jeep and down some jagged ravine the second he closed his eyes. "Relax. You're good," Eliot growled, and apparently that was enough to let him doze. 

Neal woke again when the jeep stopped outside one a number of nondescript blocks of flats in one of the city's poorer neighborhoods. He took a second to lace up his too-big boots so they wouldn't fall off his feet before following Eliot out of the vehicle. Standing up reminded him of the truly memorable quantity of boo-boos he was currently nursing, and he swayed a little on his feet until he sucked in a breath and made himself put one foot in front of the other. Yeah, he felt sexy--hopefully it'd pass muster enough for him to keep up his part of the deal with Eliot.

Or rather, and more truthfully, to keep it while not having it be fucking excruciating. 

The building Eliot parked the jeep in front of was not the building his safe house was in, naturally. That building was two blocks up and one over, and by the time they'd climbed the five floors to the top storey, Neal was shaking. When the door was bolted and chained, Eliot handed him a huge bottle of water and three protein bars. "You do that." He nodded to the food and water. "I'm showering."

Neal leaned against the wall because sitting was just not the agenda, drinking in the water and tearing open a protein bar and shamelessly watching Eliot Spencer shamelessly strip. Nope, not an ounce of propriety in this whole flat, and it made Neal smile. "Damn." Because exhausted as he was, Neal could appreciate the compact, brutally efficient body revealing itself to him.

"Yeah?" Eliot got rid of his boots and socks, then turned around to face Neal and finish stripping down to skin. That wasn't the kind of body you got from hitting the gym like a hamster in a wheel six times a week. That was the kind of body you got from **using** it. Heavy, powerful muscles that packed incredible force into punches, but a litheness of frame and quickness of mind that made the man fast and deadly. 

"Fuck yeah," Neal agreed, smiling. 

"You're not so bad yourself, darlin'," he drawled, and god, a Southern accent on top of it all. Neal had noticed it before, but when the man just **flaunted** it like that, it wasn't fair. "Prettiest thing I've seen in a long long time." And he was obviously looking forward to claiming the rest of his deal,judging from the half-hard thickening of his dick. 

Eliot prowled over to Neal and put a hand to either side of his shoulders on the wall, leaning in to nuzzle behind the boy's ear, then down his throat. "You're not running when I get in the shower, are you?" 

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Neal breathed, clutching onto the water bottle against the improbable stab of arousal that he wouldn't have thought his body capable of producing. "I am a thief of my word, and besides...I'm never gonna see you again. You think I'm going to pass up a chance to get fucked by all this?" His huge blue eyes flicked up and down Eliot's body.

"Good boy." Eliot rewarded him with an honest-to-god kiss on the mouth, hot and hard and dizzying and it left Neal flustered and red all the way to the tips of his ears. "Best fuck I ever had, huh? Somehow, I think that might just go both ways." And then Eliot was off to the tiny shower and its dubious supply of hot water. 

Well. This is...yeah, not what I expected." Neal powered through the water and protein bars, and felt a lot more alert and less like shit. He looked into the small mirror above the beat-up dresser and despaired. Pretty? He looked like shit. He looked like gutter trash. He raked his fingers through his hair ineffectually, tried to pinch a little color into his pale cheeks. Managed to ignore just how much his ass and his side hurt. Damn it, he had a great ass, and now he couldn't even show it off. Not to mention the fact that some of his favorite positions were well and truly off the table at the moment 

Eliot came back in, still naked, and towelling off. "You wanna take a turn? I think there's enough hot water, but I make no guarantees." 

Neal just nodded and jumped at the chance, only he waited to get into the bathroom before stripping down. Eliot had already seen him, but that didn't mean that he wasn't still embarrassed at the sorry state his body was in at the moment. The water was more tepid than anything, and it seared across his lacerated ass, but he still felt better and less disgusting by the time he was done scrubbing himself pink. 

_Time to pay the ferryman._

Just because he wasn't one hundred percent didn't mean Neal had no game left. He sauntered into the bedroom naked, like he owned the place and the gorgeous, dangerous man lying across the bed. The gorgeous, dangerous man who was lying across the bed stroking his already-hard cock lazily. "Bout time, princess." 

"Jesus." Sometimes, still being a teenager had its advantages, like the way he could and did get hard seeing all **that** waiting for him on the bed despite his physical discomfort. Moving carefully, Neal crawled over the thin mattress and ran his tongue over heavy testicles before licking over and between Eliot's slow-moving fingers. "This is gonna feel so damn good inside me." 

"You sure? Not hurtin' too bad?" And just like that, Neal was even more determined to give this man the ride of his life. Deal or no deal. 

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he breathed against the thick flesh, suckling on the wide head. 

"Then bring that ass up here." Eliot let his cock go in favor of gently rearranging the boy on top of him, settling the slender hips over his shoulders and avoiding the nasty red stripes when he used his thumbs to pry the pliant flesh apart. Neal keened low in his throat when he felt the first swipe of a hot, wet tongue, losing himself in Eliot's determined exploration. 

Of course that gorgeous prick was right at mouth level, and given the fact that they should probably not be **so** very loud Neal used it as a pacifier to keep himself quiet. It stretched his jaws and sat perfectly on his tongue, and when Eliot moaned, he could feel the vibrations inside his slick hole. 

Fingers followed the tongue soon after, slicked with something but Neal couldn't have said or cared what at that point. It was cool and perfect and it made him whimper around the cock in his mouth. That was enough, quite the fuck enough, and Neal moved away from the strong hands holding him in place, turned around and straddled Eliot's hips. 

Eliot had this smile on his face, a sideways swipe of lips that accompanied a look in his eyes that made Neal melt a little inside. That's not all that was going on inside him, though, because he was rocking his hips back down and taking Eliot inside him. It was still raw and it burned and Neal groaned and pushed down to let his body take it with more grace than anyone should be able to muster after being imprisoned and hurt. 

Those big, capable hands held onto his hips, supporting him as he breathed through the initial invasion, and then after when he braced himself against Eliot's broad chest and started a rhythm, sinuous and deliberate and full of clenching and releasing muscles. 

"Holy fuck," Eliot breathed out, hips riding up, trying to match Neal's pace instead of just overpowering it and fucking the daylights out of the boy. The boy who was obviously intent on pleasing him with every ounce of skill at his disposal, and did he even know that it made Eliot at least a little sad? To be this phenomenal a fuck, he had to have started very young indeed, and to enjoy it like this, like Neal so assuredly was, he must have been a natural. 

And Jesus, did he ever know what this life did to beautiful boys who were naturals. 

Neal was blissfully unaware of Eliot's thoughts, his blunt nails digging into the man's pectorals as he worked himself on that glorious cock. His own was rock hard, and not even the flare of pain every time he settled down against Eliot's thighs could rob him of the pleasure of it. It was like he grabbed onto the things in his life that gave him any real pleasure at all and held on with both hands, relishing that for the moment he was safe, he was held, and he was wanted. 

It was the little things. 

One hand detached from his hip and curled around his cock, giving Neal both free rein to move any way he wanted and a whole new spike to the pleasure already searing his nerves. Neal shuddered and ground his knees into the bed for greater leverage, his movements growing more and more ragged as his own hunger spiraled down, into his belly and lower, balls drawing up tight against a battered body that just refused to give up and lie down like it should. 

When the rhythm devolved into rutting, Neal knew it was over. He cried out sharply when Eliot pulled his orgasm from him, sent him spurting into his gripping fist, and then it was just a matter of moments before he felt Eliot grip his hip harder still, yanking him down as he growled and filled him up, for what felt like a very erotic eternity. 

Neal collapsed onto Eliot's chest and just lie there, the older man stroking his damp, messy hair. "You...surprised me," Eliot whispered. 

"I...okay." Neal groaned, the pain creeping in around the edges of his lingering pleasure. "'Cause I kept my end of the deal?" 

"Because you made me keep mine." Neal blinked owlishly up at the man. "You made me do the right thing." 

"...Sorry?" Neal should probably feel threatened right now, but he just didn't. 

"Nah, darlin', it's a good thing." Eliot shifted out of him, laid him down on his back on the bed, and curled around him. Neal felt his eyes grow heavy. The fluttered open briefly when he felt the stick of a needle to the crook of his arm, but then he was thoroughly out. 

When he awoke next, Eliot was gone, his ribs were expertly taped up to minimize pain, and even the stripes on his ass were cleaned up, cleaned out, and slathered with antibiotic gel, soft gauze laid over the marks to keep the gel in place. There was a bottle of water next to him, and a note. 

_Neal,_

_I'm really sorry I drugged you. I knew I had to tape up your ribs, and that you had to rest, and that I'd have to fight you to do either of those things. So, yeah. Drugged. I hope you know I didn't do anything to you while you were out other than get you fixed up._

_There's water and food, and this place should be safe for at least another week, but I wouldn't wait that long. As soon as you think you can sit on a long flight, get your ass to the private airport. There's a pre-paid charter flight to get you back to Paris. I just guessed on that,but since you have a French passport I figured it was easiest._

_You'll find clothes that should fit in the bag by the bed, along with some antibiotics. I didn't like how some of those marks looked, so take them all. Twice a day for five days. OK?_

_There's some other stuff in there, too._

_~Eliot_

_PS--Be careful, you idiot. Please. Damn kids...gonna kill me._

The script was written with a heavy hand, but neatly, and Neal couldn't even muster an ounce of anger over being shot up with sedatives. Probably the best sleep he's had in ages. And when he reached inside the bag he found the clothes, the voucher for the charter flight, and a stack of bearer bonds. Five hundred thousand dollars--enough to keep him safely until he was healed, on his feet, and could find a safer, better con. "Other stuff," Neal murmured, smiling and curling in on his side, letting the heady feeling of being safe and having a planned exit lull him back to sleep. 


	2. Chapter 2--The City of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four years later. Paris.

PROLOGUE TWO

_Four years later. Paris._

Neal eyed himself in the full length mirror, not so much appreciating the tuxedo but searching minutely for flaws in his presentation. Cuffs--perfection. Trouser hem--exact. Crease--so sharp you could cut yourself on it. The suit was perfect. His hair was perfect, and the watch and cufflinks and shoes were perfect. 

_Time to go to close._

After a long three months subtly implanting himself into the society of European pseudo-nobility, he was finally being offered a seat at the ten thousand euros per plate charity fundraiser, where he would at long last make contact with his mark, Ariane von Schrade, Countess of Schwarzeld. A young widow, protected by a cadre of society matrons and attorneys who rightly gathered she was ripe for the plucking by any unscrupulous sort that happened by. 

Fortunately for her, the unscrupulous sort circling in wasn't after her body, or her title, or her entire fortune. Just a tiny, tiny bit of it in the form of Rubens' _Saint George and the Dragon._ Insurance would pay her back, and his private buyer had no interest whatsoever in displaying it outside his bedroom, a predilection about which Neal was not likely to argue. 

__He was sliding a few concealable tools into specially designed seams as a final preparation when a knock at the door made him jump nearly out of his skin. No one knew him here, even after four years, and no one was likely to come to his door. Neal moved to the door and peeked through the concealed hole, which was to the left and up from the visible one. What he saw made him gasp._ _

__Gasp, and open the door immediately, without a second thought._ _

__"Eliot!" The bigger man half fell on him before getting his feet under him again. The man looked much the same as he had in the desert four years earlier. His hair was a trifle longer, and he was wearing reading glasses and a sweater and jeans, which meant that he'd been off work when he was jumped. And he'd most assuredly been jumped._ _

__"Dart...tranq. Barely made it here." The fact that he'd made it at all after being shot with a tranquilizer gun spoke volumes about the man's stamina and training. "Not followed."_ _

__"Come on, Eliot...you're safe here." Neal half-dragged the other man in and helped him recline on the couch. "Let me get you water. Are you hurt?" After Eliot was settled, the younger man closed the door, barred it, and then stripped off the tuxedo jacket and tie. The painting and the mark and the three months' work blew out of his mind like chaff from a threshing floor._ _

__Eliot let Neal help him drink from the bottle of water, and then his head hit the throw pillow again with a low thud. "Kinda...hard to breathe, but...no...not hurt."_ _

__"Okay, if you're going to pass out, I'm going to have to try and get you to the bed or you'll wake up even more miserable than you would be otherwise." His couch wasn't exactly the newest and most comfortable--he had very few trappings of the modest wealth he'd accumulated over the years. "Can you help me just a little?"_ _

__"Yeah...nnngh. Yeah." Neal got an arm around Eliot's shoulders and hoisted him up to a sitting position, then received a small burst of energy that helped him get the big guy to his feet. It wasn't an elegant or graceful process, but soon Eliot was draped on top of the covers in an untidy and totally unconscious sprawl._ _

Neal took a second to check the man's breathing, which seemed worrisomely labored to him, before making his decision to strip the man down to skin. It required more wrestling, and in the course of the endeavour he found the nasty bruise where the dart sank into the man's flank. He also found far more scars than there were four years ago, and he didn't like to see any of them. _Not that I did anything so foolish as memorize his scars,_ he told himself firmly. 

__Eliot was likely to be out for hours, so Neal busied himself cleaning the tranq site and putting a tiny round bandage over it. Probably an overabundance of caution, but he suddenly had a free evening and if he wanted to spend it fussing over his charge, so be it._ _

Sometime around two in the morning, Eliot's breathing grew heavier, and Neal promptly but quietly freaked out until he decided to put two extra pillows under the broad shoulders to keep his torso elevated and ply the man with an endless series of hot, damp cloths to the chest to help his breathing even out. 

By four, Eliot was breathing properly again, and Neal left him long enough to change into pajama pants and a tee shirt, drinking a bottle of water himself and then bringing one to the bed along with two kinds of painkillers for when his...friend? guest? fuck buddy? _Ugh, Neal, gross. Let's not talk about him like THAT again._...finally woke up. Then he curled himself around the other man and laid a protective hand on his chest before letting himself doze off. 

__"Hey, darlin'." The slow growl, the accent, all roughened by sleep even more than usual...well, there are much, much worse ways to wake up. When Neal cracked open one of his pretty blue eyes, he found Eliot looking at him, one hand over the one Neal had left on his chest, squeezing gently._ _

__"Hi." Neal quirked a smile, and couldn't help leaning in to nuzzle against the stubbly line of Eliot's jaw. "How's the head?"_ _

__"Fuckin' hurts. I took some of the pills, drank the water. I'll be good soon." He lifted Neal's hand and kissed the palm. "Thank you."_ _

__"It was my sincere pleasure." Even blowing a three-month set up didn't sting when he had Eliot in his bed again, and that should be concerning, to say the least. "How'd you know where I was?" He'd never seen Eliot look discomfited before. It was kind of cute._ _

__"I've...been keeping an eye on you. Since the first time. Not like a creepy eye, just, you know, keeping track of where you are, how you are. You're doing really well for yourself. You've even grown, what, a couple inches?"_ _

__Now it was Neal's turn to blush. "Eliot, geeze, you sound like my uncle at Christmas or something. I was eighteen, and now I'm twenty-two. I wasn't a kid then, but my body just wasn't done growing yet."_ _

__"I wasn't tryin' to make you feel weird. Just...you're even prettier than you were." There was amusement in Eliot's eyes, but it wasn't mocking, and it made Neal relax._ _

__He fluttered his obscenely long lashes at the other man. "I've picked up a few new skills, too."_ _

__"Shameless. I like that about you." Eliot wormed an arm under Neal's shoulders, tugged him up to his chest and kissed him, a soft brush of lips. "Now I'm gonna sleep some more, and you're gonna sleep some more, and then maybe we pick up where we left off for my last couple days in Paris."_ _

_Last couple of days. Figures._ But Neal, despite it all, was a glass-half-full kind of person. Couple of days was a whole lot more than a couple of hours. "I'd like that. I can show you how far I've come." 

__"Yeah, and you can show me what a great forger you've become, too," Eliot teased, settling back into the comfortable bed (a boy has to have some luxuries, or why the life of crime?) and pulling Neal with him into a loose embrace._ _

__Somehow, Eliot could still make him blush, and he hid his face and laughed at his own foolishness. Eliot stroked his dark hair, and it wasn't long before they were both asleep again._ _

__The next time they woke, late afternoon sun was slanting through the sheer drapes, the kind of beautiful spring afternoon made Neal want to throw open all the windows and run until his legs gave out. He wouldn't turn his nose up at other kinds of exercise, though. "Mmm, hello. Shower, then food?" If they had two days, no point in being greedy._ _

__"You got a tub?" Eliot murmured in his ear, tilting his head back to bite gently, softly down the tender flesh, leaving a full-body shiver in his wake._ _

"Yesss...fuck. Big enough for two." Maybe a little greed was in order, anyway. Neal slithered out of Eliot's arms and from the bed, blushing a little more at the older man's knowing grin. He went to the bathroom and started the big clawfoot tub filling up with hot water, moving the shower curtain off to the far side, and relieved himself and brushed his teeth. _Needy much?_ But he couldn't stop himself and couldn't care too much. He'd been living off those few hours years ago in his imagination for a long, long time. 

Oh, there'd been others, of course. For fun, for work. Women, mostly,because it was somehow less...fraught with women. They were easier, for some reason. He knew the patter, the lines, how to please them in bed. Everyone said women were so much harder to get off, but that was bullshit, or at least it was for Neal. Maybe he just got the operating system. Or maybe a certain gruff Southern ruthless killer had ruined him for other men. _Couldn't be. Can't be. I can't keep him._

__It'd be ruination for his business if he kept Eliot, anyway._ _

__"Hey, you okay?" Eliot's voice startled him, but he leaned back against the other man's solid presence, feeling chapped lips kiss along his shoulder._ _

__"Yeah, I'm great, actually." Finally. For the moment._ _

__"Then how 'bout you get naked for me?" Eliot released him and then went to the toilet to take a piss, which made Neal blush again, infuriatingly, as if he were **actually** as young as he looked, as young as it said on his birth certificate. It was intimate, was all. Something lovers did._ _

__Neal nodded and pulled off his tee shirt, tossing it into the hamper and then slowing himself down for the pants. Drawstring first, slowly, then ease them off the hips, past his half-hard cock. Drink in those hungry looks. "So...you still want me. Even though I'm different." Grown up._ _

__"What? God, you're fuckin' gorgeous." More so, now that Neal wasn't so injured, so painfully, excruciatingly young. "And you must know it."_ _

"I make my living off it, but it doesn't mean a damn thing if..." _Whoa, boy. Yes, just leave that sentence hanging._

__"Yeah...in case you missed it, I have a whole bunch of scars I got over the last four years. Those turn you off?" Eliot prowled over to him and curled a hand in the hair at the back of his neck, possessive and commanding._ _

__"No...god, no." And to prove it, Neal rubbed his cock against Eliot's, biting his lower lip hard._ _

__"Then let's get in the tub, hm?" Eliot somehow managed to keep a claiming hand on Neal while the younger man turned off the water and they settled with Neal's back to Eliot's broad chest. "I fucked up a job last night, didn't I? You were dressed to the nines."_ _

__"You noticed that even though you were drugged? Impressed." Neal shrugged and pressed back against the bigger man, letting Eliot's hard dick rub against the cleft of his ass._ _

__"Have to be dead not to notice you the way you looked. Though I gotta say, if I had my way, you'd be naked all the fuckin' time." It was a rather neanderthal sentiment, but it still made Neal's cock throb and a little moan escape his lips._ _

__"That's...bossy of you." He leaned his head against Eliot's shoulder and twisted around lithely to capture the man's mouth in a kiss that should have been clumsier than it was._ _

__"Damn right." If you had a piece of art like Neal Caffrey, you didn't throw a sheet over it when you got it home._ _

__This whole conversation ratcheted up Neal's arousal, and the flush creeping up his shoulders wasn't entirely from the hot water. And when Eliot gently fisted his damp hair with one hand and used the other to wrap around his cock, Neal almost lost it on the spot. "Fuck, Eliot." His hips shot up and Eliot used his teeth in Neal's shoulder to back him down again._ _

__"Not yet," the other man growled. "Wanna take my time with you. Put those long legs over the edge of the tub."_ _

__Neal shuddered and moaned without a trace of self-consciousness as he followed the command, stretching his legs over either side of the bath and opening himself up for Eliot's eyes and hands. "Don't know if I can...if I can hold off, Eliot."_ _

__"But you want to, for me." The other man's callused hand squeezed hard at the base of Neal's prick, then released, traveling up the toned torso pinch one tiny, pink nipple to hardness._ _

__"Oh god, yes...want you," Neal murmured, eyes screwing closed as he tried to breathe and keep control. This was only the second time in his life he'd seen this man, and yet he couldn't remember ever wanting anything more. He couldn't remember anyone, among many many lovers, who'd ever looked at him like Eliot did. Sure, they hungered after him, but it always felt so banal, so easy, so frankly predictable. People looked at Neal and wanted him, but that didn't mean that he wanted them back, not that what he wanted tended to matter. It was work; it was a brief connection; it was something to stave off loneliness. When Eliot looked at him, it was all he could do not to grab onto the man and beg him to never, ever leave._ _

_So childish, Neal. Grow the fuck up._

__"Good, because Jesus fuckin' Christ do I want you, too." It was almost a croon, close to his ear. Eliot let his hair go, and slid that hand down to his chest, taking over the duty of pinching and squeezing and pulling at his nipples while the other hand slid lower again, past Neal's aching dick to his testicles, cupping them in his hand and letting them draw up tight in his palm. "Don't come," he reminded the younger man._ _

__"Easy for you to say," Neal gasped out, but a quick thrust of Eliot's cock against his cleft showed him that maybe that wasn't entirely fair._ _

__"All I want right now is to shove my dick inside you and make you come howlin' my name, but I'm not gonna play it like that," Eliot murmured._ _

__"Cause you're a control freak?" Neal panted, as those maddening fingers slipped lower, over his perineum, to press against his prostate from the outside._ _

__"Cause I wanna take you apart." Maybe that should be scary, but when had Neal ever actually been scared of this trained killer?_ _

__"Could you just...oh fuck..." Eliot thumbed one of his nipples and then pinched harder than before. "Put something in me? A finger? Dying here..."_ _

__"Christ, boy." It was so low it almost wasn't even a growl, just a chthonic rumble in the man's broad chest. "Think I can do that without you losing it?"_ _

__"Gonna try." Because Neal wanted to, oh he wanted to please Eliot, and besides, he couldn't ever remember being this turned on. He didn't want it to end._ _

__"Such a fuckin' good boy for me," Eliot murmured, his middle finger slipping lower to rub over the tight ring of muscle, softened by hot water and Neal's desperate push out to open himself to the intrusion._ _

__Neal couldn't remember to use his words, but Eliot didn't seem to mind. It felt like it took forever for Eliot to finish just **playing** with his hole, and by the time that finger pushed inside his over-eager body practically devoured it. _ _

__It wasn't fair at **all** when Eliot dropped his hand down from his nipples to his cock, stroking as he worked his finger inside as far as it would reach. It was even less fair when Eliot unerringly found his sweet spot and rubbed over it. Neal was rigid and panting, eyes no longer shut tight but open and unseeing. "Eliot," it came out not even sounding like him. _ _

__"Yeah?" He wasn't the only one losing it, because Eliot's heart was racing against his shoulder blade, his voice was so rough it was like sandpaper over his throat, and his cock was throbbing against his ass. "Say it, beautiful."_ _

__"I need to come...please...Let me come." Begging wasn't even hard. In fact, Neal would have begged a whole lot more for the next words that slipped from Eliot's lips._ _

__"Then come for me."_ _

__It should really be embarrassing how it didn't even take a full second for him to comply, Neal's so busy seeing God he can't be bothered to worry about how things look. When his orgasm finally abated, he slumped against Eliot and looked up at the man with hazy, unfocused eyes. "Holy shit."_ _

__Eliot grinned as though he in fact wasn't about to come all over himself just from watching. He eased his finger out of Neal and wrapped his arms around the smaller man. "Yeah?"_ _

__"You know it, stop with the false modesty." Idly, Neal grabbed Eliot's hand from the water and licked off whatever traces of his seed remained, holding it and turning it this way and that to snake his tongue into every crevice. "And since you're so demanding, why don't you tell me how you want to get off?"_ _

__"In your mouth, with that fucking amazing tongue curled around my dick." Eliot moved Neal off him, and pushed himself up to the back edge of the tub, kneeling up so that his cock was above the water line._ _

__Neal turned around to face him, his blue eyes dark, lips parted and swollen from his teeth. "You're cleaning up this mess," he warned, licking his lips he knelt up and leaned forward, taking the wide head into his mouth and sucking, the explosion of precome making his spent cock twitch._ _

__"Shit, whatever, just don't stop." Eliot would do a few of Hercules' labors if Neal just kept on doing what he was doing. Mopping up the floor was nothing._ _

__As if he was going to stop--as amazing as Eliot fucking him had been, he'd been fantasizing just as much over being able to do this again and actually be able to focus on the act properly. Neal breathed through his nose and swallowed, taking the hard cock in past any sensible point, past his non-existant gag reflex, until his nose was touching Eliot's belly._ _

No doubt, it was a stretch, even for him, but Neal was nothing if not devoted to the task at hand. He used one hand to grip Eliot's balls as an anchor, then started up a juicy, obscene rhythm, eyes fluttering up to Eliot's blissful face. _Oh yeah. That's the look I wanted._ The other man was able to utter nothing but soft curses and moans and the occasional growl and Neal was in heaven. 

_Why does everything have to be so fucking perfect with him?_ Because Neal couldn't keep him. That wasn't how the world worked. He wasn't allowed. 

__"Shit...oh fuck, darlin'..." And there was that word again, and it made Neal suck even harder. Eliot may have been determined to let Neal just do his thing, but he wasn't even aware of his hand going to Neal's hair and gripping, of his hips working with the rhythm. It wasn't cruel or thoughtless, but Neal felt the shift and it made something feral and **hungry** bloom inside him, and this time he was the one who snarled and met the thrusts._ _

__A few thrusts was all it took before Eliot gave it up for him, making animal noises that couldn't even be properly categorized as growls or snarls or mewls or whimpers, coming hard down his throat. Neal had to fight his grip to move up and catch the last of Eliot's seed on his tongue. Otherwise, he wouldn't have even tasted it, and that was just unacceptable._ _

__When Eliot finally released him, Neal slithered up to kiss him hard, deep and claiming and showing him that he was **just fine**. That didn't stop Eliot from murmuring the question anyway, a breath away from apologizing, but Neal cut him off with another kiss. When Eliot did that, it made him feel equal, not used. Like Eliot didn't think of him as a child, or a wispy little thing he could break. It was fucking glorious._ _

__When they finally broke apart, Neal smiled and nuzzled at Eliot's jaw. "You mop up, I'll make dinner."_ _

__"Yeah, that was the deal." The older man's lips quirked. "I'm starving though, so maybe you should get to it."_ _

__"Mmm, me too." Neal kissed him one more time then climbed, out, drying off and slipping on clean pajama pants. "I put some sweats over here for you, they're big on me, so...maybe they'll fit?"_ _

__"Not worried about it. Thank you."_ _

__Neal just blushed, which he really shouldn't be able to do around Eliot anymore, and ducked out to cook._ _

__**_ _

__Two days, two nights._ _

__Six meals. They were both amazing cooks, as it turned out._ _

__Eliot liked to watch him paint._ _

__Neal liked to watch Eliot do pushups, because who wouldn't._ _

__Eliot was shockingly well-read. So was Neal._ _

__Countless bottles of wine._ _

__Eliot let Neal read out loud to him in bed, curled up in the late morning sun._ _

__One trip to the market, the first night, when Neal was terrified that Eliot would just be gone when he came back._ _

__He wasn't. He was doing dishes with his hair pulled back in a pony tail._ _

__Number of orgasms...Neal lost count at sixteen between the both of them._ _

__**_ _

Neal stood at the door, fighting down the words he wanted to say. _Stay. Stay. Be mine._ "Be careful," was all he could say.

__"You want me to keep up with where you are?" Eliot had him leaned up against the door, kissing him and nuzzling at his throat and jaw._ _

__"Yeah. I do. If you ever need anything, I want you to be able to find me."_ _

__"And if you ever get in trouble again, I'll know." There was something in Eliot's voice that made Neal believe that whoever hurt him would be so, so very dead._ _

__"Christ. Just...please be careful." Neal couldn't keep the ragged edge off his voice, aware of how painfully young it made him sound._ _

__"I will, darlin'. I promise you." Of course he'd be as careful as he could, but he couldn't have a more dangerous profession._ _

__"Okay." Because Neal saw that promise for what it was, and it was a sweet gesture._ _

__Even so, even parting with sweet gestures, Neal felt like his heart was breaking when the door closed behind Eliot._ _


	3. Chapter 3--Where Did My Sweet Boy Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years later. New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Eliot's POV.  
> 2\. Depressing.

PROLOGUE THREE

_Two years later. New York._

**

Eliot had kept trying to get back to Neal, but it was like someone lit a fire under the boy's ass after their last meeting. He was taking on jobs left and right, but about six months ago word had gone round that he'd lost everything on a big, big gamble of a job that fell flat and left him running for his life, penniless, back to the States. 

No judgment, because that shit happened to everyone eventually. It'd had happened to Eliot three times. You got used to it; laying all your cards down and realizing that you'd royally fucked up was part of the job. You learned, you moved on, hopefully with your person and your dignity intact.

What worried Eliot was this new woman in Neal's life. He didn't trust her. Kate Moreau was an unknown quantity, despite his probing into her background. The one thing he knew for certain was that he didn't trust her to have Neal's best interest at heart, and the boy seemed utterly smitten. First love was a bitch, especially when it came relatively late.

And then there were rumors that Neal had acquired his own personal FBI agent, a capable White Collar Crimes boyscout type who was not even remotely an idiot. Put all that together, and you got one freaked-out Eliot.

He'd waited for Kate to leave before coming up to the door of this crappy apartment. Unsure of what he would say or do, he knocked, and tried to ignore the blatant conflict on Neal's handsome face when he opened it. Had he ever seen so many emotions on a single human being's face before? Joy, fear, anger, sadness, a little bitterness. It was a miracle the boy didn't implode.

"Neal." 

"Eliot. Hi. Come in." He stepped aside, and let Eliot in. Pizza boxes and woefully shitty wine--no home cooking (did this place even have a kitchen?) and what the fuck had happened to his beautiful, brilliant boy?

"Look, let me just get this outta the way up front." Eliot took a deep breath, because this was hard as hell when all he wanted was to kiss this gorgeous man senseless, knock him over the head, and drag him to safety by his pretty hair. "This isn't about sex."

"...Right." It didn't stop Neal from skating ever closer to Eliot, unable to stop himself from getting into the older man's space. "Because you know about Kate." 

"Because I know about Kate, and I know you." No sex didn't mean that he couldn't reach out and cup Neal's face, thumb stroking under his eye, along a sharp cheekbone. "I came here because I'm worried." 

"Oh...you mean Peter Burke? He's miles behind us. He's smart, but still. Miles behind." Neal nuzzled into Eliot's hand and if he didn't cut this out, he'd do something they'd both regret. 

"No, gorgeous, I don't think he is. I think he's closer than you want to believe. Don't do this bond forgery job. Run." 

"I can't run with no money, Eliot. You know where that leads, and I won't put Kate through it." The more likely scenario, in Eliot's mind, was that Neal would take all the hits of an impoverished life on the run and spare her everything. 

"I know. Would you take money from me to run?" 

"You know I wouldn't." His hand slid over Eliot's and he turned his face to kiss the man's callused palm. "I couldn't. What would I tell Kate? This guy I fuck from time to time showed up and gave us money and honestly it was for free." 

"Who the fuck cares? She'd deal with it." Her sensibilities were the last of his concern. 

"No, she wouldn't. She'd assume I got the money on my knees, and I promised her that was over." Neal was ashamed of his past, now. Ashamed of it, and that broke Eliot's heart.

"You did what you had to do. If you hadn't would have even made it this far?" Eliot, by virtue of his apparently limitless talent for mayhem, had been spared a lot of the sex trade that was so common in their world, but that no one liked to talk about. But considering that he'd just spent two years under Damien Moreau (no relation, and boy had he ever checked), he knew that sometimes you just couldn't escape it.

The answer to that question was self evident, so Neal distracted himself by stroking his fingers through Eliot's newly-short hair. "Why did you cut it?"

"Someone I really don't like to remember liked it long." The second it was out, Eliot realized that could be taken entirely the wrong way. "Not you, Neal. Someone...someone bad." 

"I was about to say." Only he wasn't. Neal had understood at once that Eliot didn't mean him. "Are you all right, Eliot? I haven't heard...there hasn't been much news of you at all the last two years, and the little I've heard has been pretty scary." Flat out wet-work, and that hadn't really been Eliot's style.

"I chewed my way outta that trap, gorgeous. I'm back to being strictly a lone wolf." And he would never make the mistake of trusting anyone (other than one pretty grifter and forger that he had no business trusting) again. 

"I wish you'd find someone. You deserve that." Neal was fighting the urge to press up against Eliot, to throw his arms around broad shoulders and get taken right there with his back to the wall. But you weren't supposed to want those things when you were in love.

"Neal...please don't do this job. I got a bad feeling." His voice was rough. The idea of this lovely creature in prison made him sick.

"There's nothing else to hang our future on, Eliot. You know how it is. You have to take what's there in front of you, grab your win, then move on."

"That would be the conventional wisdom, yeah."

"So do you have any unconventional wisdom for me?" 

Eliot saw this was a battle he was going to lose. Better to lose gracefully. "Nothin' you wanna hear, beautiful." He did lean in, then for a kiss. It wasn't rough or possessive or claiming, and he reined in the hunger curling in his gut. Maybe it was out of line, but he had no idea when he'd see Neal again, and he never wanted the boy to forget this.

And Neal didn't push him away. He trembled for a long moment, then his body relaxed into Eliot's embrace just like it always had. Eliot knew he could have the boy in that moment, any way he wanted, but he summoned up every ounce of willpower and ended the kiss, hugging Neal hard for a short time before letting him go and leaving him swaying on his feet. _Tell me Kate makes you dizzy._

But that was petty and bullshit and unfair. If he cared about Neal at all, he'd back off right now. Leave the boy to make his own choices. And, god forbid, his own mistakes.

"Do you have to go?" Neal sounded wistful, but also wary. This would be impossible to explain to her if she came back and caught them like this, obviously lusting after each other.

"I have a job to do. It won't take long, but whatever you do, don't get yourself arrested before I can get back, okay?"

"Don't worry. I have no intention of getting arrested by Peter Burke, no matter what a worthy adversary he is." Still so cocky. And nothing that Eliot could say would do anything to humble him. To put the fear into him.

"Okay. That's all I can ask." Eliot knew he had to leave, had to get out before he said or did things he would bitterly regret. Kate won't be around forever, and he could bide his time.

Neal walked him to door, even though it was a scant couple of paces away. "Thank you, Eliot. It means a lot that you came here." 

"Yeah, well. I can't help caring about what happens to you." His voice was rough.

"Nor I, you." Neal touched Eliot's face again. "I'll be careful, but you have to be careful, too." 

"Deal." One last ghost a kiss, and he was gone.

Neal was arrested three days later. The case was iron clad. By the time Eliot managed to resurface after a less than pleasant stint in a North Korean detention facility, it was too late. He couldn't help but note that Kate Moreau had escaped all prosecution for her role in the events leading to his conviction, and he was damned sure it wasn't an accident.

The worst part, the very worst, was that even though Eliot could break Neal out, Neal would never 'do that' to Kate. That life of poverty on the run. It wasn't what he wanted for her, and he was willing to do four years behind bars to make sure it didn't happen. 

No, Neal would not thank him for busting him out of jail. And that hurt more than it should. Enough that he locked himself in his temporary apartment and did something he never did--he drank for a week straight, until he could see something other than those blue eyes when fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4--Searching for a Light in the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four years later, New York. Neal is out of prison and wearing the anklet, carrying scars that one except Eliot can see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter for rape aftermath. Warning as well for heartbreaking boys being idiots.

Four years later, New York.

**

The knock at the door was hardly unexpected. Peter had been on him like a tick, and Mozzie hadn't been much better. You'd think Peter would just check the damn anklet, but it was like the man had to be ON him all the time to satisfy himself that Neal wasn't running. Peter didn't understand exactly how much better than prison this was. 

Neal took a deep breath and mastered his irritation, opening the door with 'Peter' on his lips. His eyes widened when he saw the familiar form taking up his whole damn doorway. "Eliot." The other man looked at him, really looked, looked through, into, every which way.

"Neal. I think you oughta let me in," Eliot murmured. The man looked little different, really, except for the hair that was long again and pulled back into a knot at the base of his skull that really ought to look feminine but instead looked like something an ancient warrior would do to keep his enemy from using his hair against him. And there was Neal, babbling in the brain again instead of standing aside and getting out of his way.

"Sorry...sorry, it's just that you're the last person I expected." It sounded false as soon as it left his lips.

"Now, darlin', that's bullshit. I'm here to get you outta that fucking thing and take you away." His eyes flickered down to the anklet, even though it was covered by his pajama pants. "June let me in--I think she knows about us." 

"Knows...how could she know? There's not even an us." Neal's stomach clenched into knots and he took a step away from Eliot.

"That's not true," Eliot replied gently. "Look, Neal, I joined up with a crew. We're...we're actually doing some good in the world. Like fucking over the people with money who fuck over everyone else. You'd like them. They'd like you. Come with me."

"I can't leave, Eliot." Although god, it sounded good. Rescued by his knight in dented, muddy, bloody armor, taken away and adopted into a group where he could use his powers for good instead of being constantly watched, constantly judged.

"It's been less than a week, and you're already thinking they own you?" Taking Stockholm Syndrome to a new level.

"I cannot risk going back." Neal tried to put all the finality he felt into those four words, walking to the counter and opening a bottle of wine, pouring two glasses because, as he reminded himself, that's what you do when you have company. When you're entertaining a...a lover. God. "I cannot GO back."

"Jesus, Neal." Eliot found himself at arm's length when he went in to touch Neal, held at bay by a glass of cabernet. "Who was it," he ground out. It was obvious now, why hadn't he been looking? It was in every line of his body language. Keep out, stay away, I'm small and ugly and you don't want me.

"Lost count," Neal saw no point in hiding what was apparently plain as day to the ever-perceptive Eliot Spencer. 

"Want you to try and remember for me." Eliot forced his voice to gentle, took the glass from Neal's hand to set aside. "Don't care what the number is. Just want names. Aliases, nicknames, whatever. It's all I need." To find those men and rip them limb from limb with his bare hands.

"Stop, Eliot. God, I....I can't. Just stop." Neal had been pretending everything was fine, and Peter hadn't bothered to check in all those four years how many times he'd been to the infirmary or for what. Or maybe he had. God, Neal didn't want to think that of Peter. That Peter knew what he was going through in the prison where he'd put this horribly dangerous criminal. Max security, not because he was a menace, but because he was a flight risk.

Eliot resolved to find them, no matter what Neal said or didn't say. He had ways. He would use them. "I wouldn't let you go back to prison. I wouldn't let anything fucking happen to you, Neal." 

Neal leaned in, slowly, tentatively, to rest his head on Eliot's shoulder. It felt like it weighed fifty pounds and was full of nothing but fear and disgust and regret. "I should have listened to you."

"I don't wanna hear you talk like that, darlin'." Very slowly, the strong arms came up to encircle Neal's slight frame. He was skinnier now than when Eliot had first found him in that basement. Had Peter noticed that, either? Or was it one more of the convenient lies that the blindingly upright moral citizens brigade told themselves? Prisons are safe. Prisons are full of evil people. Prisons are for bad men. 

At the same time, prison rape is deplorable, only to be expected, and never discussed except in tasteless, cruel jokes. If you're in prison, you deserve to be, and whatever happened to you was whatever you deserved. Even if you were a beautiful gift of a boy.

"Peter thinks I can be good. I want to be good, Eliot." Neal's arms circled his neck, and he plastered himself against the bigger man. 

"What? There ain't nothin' wrong with you." The growl was insistent, and Eliot pulled back to show Neal he fucking meant what he said. "Nothin'. You hear me?" 

"No, Eliot. I mean, yes, I hear you. But **everything** is wrong with me." All of this was just exactly what he deserved. Kate running away, his leash, his broken, shattered sense of who he was and what he was. 

It made Eliot sick to his stomach. Made him want to use one of his many knives to cut through that fucking anklet and drag Neal away to Boston by his hair, sit on him till he came to his senses. "I wish I could make you see yourself like I do." 

"Eliot..." Neal wetted his suddenly parched lips, viciously stamped down on the knot in his belly. "Do you still see me as someone you want to fuck?"

How the hell was anyone supposed to answer that? "I...I see you as someone I care about. I see you as someone I desire. I see you as someone who's pretty goddamned extraordinary and important." 

"So you'll fuck me?" Because this being afraid of his body and his own shadow bullshit was getting old really, really fast. "You should fuck me." 

"Neal..." Eliot stroked his big hand over the back of Neal's head, his own stomach in knots because this was a Big Deal. He knew it, Neal knew it. And of course there was no way on god's earth he was gonna say no to his sweet boy. Only Neal wasn't his sweet boy anymore, was he? What fucking and conning and forging his way across half the globe hadn't done, prison had. There was no joy in him anymore, no wonder, no innocence.

Hardison would help him track down the men, and the guards, and keep his secret. He was slow on the uptake sometimes about some things, but he was getting it finally. He had a family, and Hardison was part of it. 

"I understand if you don't want me anymore," Neal whispered, rubbing his face hard against Eliot's tee shirt, scrubbing away tears he didn't even want to admit he was shedding, much less discuss.

"What? God, baby...no. I'd have to be dead not to want you," Eliot murmured, cupping Neal's face carefully and looking into the boy's rapidly blinking eyes. "I just don't wanna make things worse."

"Worse? Eliot, I know you know what I feel right now." Powerless, disgusting, inhuman. "Nothing could be worse. I have to be able to function in the world, no one can know about this. I gotta get right, Eliot, and there's no one I trust but you."

And if Eliot said no, Neal had no idea who he'd go to. Peter...no. He couldn't ask Peter for this, he was happily married, normal, stable. Mozzie's head would explode as he ran out the door like his remaining hair was on fire. It had to be Eliot.

The runaway train of thought was abruptly and decidedly derailed by Eliot's mouth on his. It was gentle, but not wary, tender without being pandering. Eliot wanted to show him that he wasn't just a fuck. That he was valued, of value, no matter what had happened to him. It took a long time for Neal to open up, and even longer for the lean, tense lines of his body to start relaxing into Eliot's. Eliot's patience made him want to cry.

Neal grabbed at Eliot, clung to him in ways that he would never have before--great fistfuls of the man's shirt over each shoulder blade. Eliot rumbled in his chest, and the sound went right to Neal's gut. It was such a familiar noise, even though he supposed he had no right to think of Eliot as intimately as he did. A man who'd seen him inside and out and still wanted him--what was more intimate than that? And yet Neal felt the oh-so-welcome surge of hunger start building in his belly, at the base of his spine, curling through his body.

Eliot felt the sea change, and he took the moment to hook strong hands under Neal's thighs and pick him up, carrying him the short distance to the bed. Hunger, he could work with. Hunger was good. If he'd had to do this with Neal just gritting his teeth through it, he wouldn't have been able to manage. "Wanna see you," he murmured into Neal's ear, breaking the kiss to do so, to reach down and pull up the hem of the man's shirt, fingers brushing pale skin as he eased the cotton knit up and over Neal's tousled head.

"You too," Neal whispered, reaching down to pull off Eliot's wrinkled shirt, taking note of new scars as he has done every time since the first. "You're not being careful." 

"Actually...darlin', I kinda am." Eliot's mouth twisted wryly and he ducked down to kiss a path along the curve of Neal's graceful neck, tongue laving hard over his pulse point with just a hint of teeth that made the younger man shiver, his hips bucking up. 

"Fuck..." That always was a sweet spot, and Eliot's solid weight on him was reassuring. He'd been so afraid that being pinned down would overwhelm him, but as long as he could smell Eliot, touch the scarred skin with reverent fingertips, everything would be all right. 

It took easily another twenty minutes for Eliot to get his jeans and Neal's pajama pants off, because any movement away from Neal's body, any time away from that sweet, hot, all-consuming kiss was hard-won. Just kissing Neal was a like some kind of balm, soothing his own broken heart, and how dangerous was that? Neal had just said, again, that he would not leave with Eliot. That he wouldn't run.

When Eliot twisted his hips and slid his hard cock along Neal's, Neal mewled and his hips shot up in response. Lean thighs spread, and Eliot's cock slid along Neal's cleft, making them both gasp. 

"You got anything we can use?" Eliot murmured, feeling Neal's hand clutching his hair and knowing that as much as he'd like to go down and use his tongue to open up his lover, that just wasn't going to happen this time. Neal needed Eliot right where he was. 

"Top drawer...I was going to try by myself..." God, Neal was ashamed to have lube? His Neal? Eliot had never judged this beautiful boy, and even if his 'get over it' plan was to have a train lined up out the door Eliot wouldn't give a damn. He'd fight 'em all for his place in line, but he wouldn't think one iota less of the boy.

"Nah, just glad I don't have to get up and improvise," Eliot whispered, tongue traveling over Neal's kiss-swollen bottom lip before suckling at it, reaching out blindly to retrieve the brand new tube from the bedside table. "I'm gonna stay right here, yeah?" With one arm wrapping around slender shoulders and the other slick hand sliding down between trembling thighs.

"Good...yes. Stay here, let me look at you," Neal whispered, body tensing like a bow when Eliot's fingers rubbed over his hole. "Eliot..." 

"Shh, darlin'. Open up your eyes and look at me." Neal hadn't even realized he'd closed them, but he forced them open and looked at Eliot's face. 

"God, you're beautiful," Neal whispers, one hand cupping Eliot's face, and god that was something he wouldn't even say drunk off his ass. 

"I think you're confusin' me and you. You're the sweetest thing I ever saw." The breathy laughter that accompanied those words allowed Eliot to slip a slick finger into clenching heat. "That's it, baby, you got this."

"How can you make this feel so good?" Because it really, really shouldn't, and yet all Neal can do is push down to relax the muscles, making Eliot groan when he could finally slide his finger in all the way. 

"Know your body pretty well by now, an' I love to make you come," Eliot murmured back, his hair falling haphazardly across their faces. "You remember that time in Paris on the kitchen table?" Apparently Neal did, because he was able to get a second finger in when the younger man moaned and hitched his hips up at the memory.

"Never come so hard in my whole fucking life," he admitted, breathing out the words around gasps. 

"Had to throw half the vegetables out by the time I was done with you. Kept you on right on the edge for what...an hour? I wasn't keepin' track." That had been pure joy, watching Neal flushed and hard and leaking and begging and squirming that gorgeous ass all over his table, clenching and fucking himself on whatever Eliot found to fill him up with.

"God, I still blush when I see a salad," Neal laugh-moaned and then cried out when Eliot found his prostate and pressed against it. His cock throbbed dully where it rested on his concave belly, and his hips were starting to rise up to meet each gentle thrust. "More? Want more." 

"Fuck yeah, darlin'. You're callin' the shots." Eliot kissed him again, trapping the good memories between them with sheer force of will as he worked a third finger into Neal. He was so, so close to being ready for Eliot's cock, but the older man was taking zero chances with this man, this body, this sweet creature holding onto him like a life preserver after a shipwreck.

Oh, he could not think of Neal like that. He couldn't. Too late. It was too late years ago.

"Then I want you, all of you. I want to see you when I close my eyes at night, feel you on top of me. Smell you. Taste you." Neal reached down to cup Eliot's ass, squeezing tight and pulling him into the cradle of his thighs. "Yeah?"

"Aw, god....yeah, darlin'." As if there were any doubt. He somehow managed to get his fingers out and his cock slicked up even with Neal's iron grasp on him, and soon he was lining up against the well-stretched hole and rocking forward. The moment of truth was long passed, and all Neal saw was him.

"Oh god, Eliot, that's it. That's...oh god, perfect," he moaned, hands sliding from Eliot's ass up to his head, playing along the lines of muscled back on their way to grabbing fistfuls of the man's hair. 

Eilot shuddered, looking for the control he knew he could muster for Neal, then he kissed his lover and shifted his hips, finding a shallow rhythm that never took him far. Couple inches in, couple inches out, thick cock rubbing at Neal's prostate every time. It really was perfect. As perfect as his lover's kisses, his hips rising to meet every thrust, fluid and sensual like they'd always been.

His Neal was feeling much, much more like himself, and it made Eliot want to cry with joy. But Eliot didn't do that kind of thing--instead he growled and tugged up Neal's hips and found an even better angle, hand snaking between them to fist Neal's hard cock.

Neal thrashed and bit at his lip, hands pulling too hard on his hair as he lost it, spurting over Eliot's demanding fist just ahead of Eliot's own climax. They never seemed capable of words in the actual moment, just moans and snarls and desperate little noises that were half-animal. This time, Eliot heard things in that stream of babbled nonsense that almost broke his heart. There may have even been a gutturally moaned, thoughtless 'love you.' Oh no. Just...no. Because it could not be. He wouldn't leave. Eliot couldn't stay. Neal was just too overwrought, too emotional, too undone by this. Of course he'd say that.

Didn't make it real.

Eliot would never mention the tears he oh-so-tenderly licked off of Neal's cheeks. Neal would never mention that he thought having his face licked clean was disturbingly erotic. They were even.

Neal fell into an exhausted sleep, and Eliot ignored the ugly black band around his delicate ankle, curling him into his arms and spooning up, a solid barrier at his back to protect him from his own choices.

**

The sun had barely risen when they said their goodbyes. Eliot tried one last time to get Neal to leave with him, to run away to his world, but Neal just said that he couldn't. He could not. There was a finality to it that Eliot did not argue against even though every bit of him wanted to.

One look at him, at Neal, at the flat, the bed, one good sniff, and anyone would know what they were doing all night. So of course, of COURSE, when Eliot opened the door to leave there was Agent Peter Burke of the fucking FBI standing there about to knock.

They stared at each other for a few moments while the agent connected the dots, looked back to Neal in nothing but boxer shorts drinking coffee and leaning up against the kitchen counter. Neal flushed scarlet and nearly dropped the cup into the sink.

"You a friend of Neal's?" Peter asked, eyes narrowing. Anyone with half a brain could see that Eliot was a dangerous man. A professionally dangerous man. 

"I'm a hell of a lot more than that." Eliot knew this alpha male bullshit of who got custody of the door was just that--bullshit. It was Neal's door. 

"Peter...I'm sorry I'm running late." Neal tried to placate immediately, but Peter had the grace to move aside, and Eliot wasn't going to win the room's biggest asshole prize so he slid past the older man.

"Hurt him, and I swear to god you will regret it." The words were out despite his intentions, barely audible even though both Peter and Neal clearly heard. And then he was gone, leaving them alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there will be an unplanned yet crucial next chapter where Eliot and Hardison find those sick fucks, and Eliot (with an assist from Parker) takes care of business. Never fear, my dears. No one hurts Neal and gets away with it. (*whisper* except Neal)


	5. Chapter 5--Dreamers and Schemers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot turns to friends to help find out who's responsible for hurting Neal. Peter confronts Neal, and then June and Neal strategize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Happens pretty much right after chapter 4, when Eliot leaves.  
> 2\. Yay, hello, Parker and Hardison!  
> 3\. More yay, hello, June!  
> 4\. And Peter. (Just kidding, I love Peter, but wow is he a judgey asshole sometimes.)  
> 5\. WARNING: brief but vivid description of rape.

Interlude

**  
 **Eliot and Hardison (and Parker), Boston**

**

"I think I'm gonna have to hear that a little slower. Maybe enunciate it real careful." Hardison took a long swig off his orange soda then put the bottle down by his keyboard, looking at Eliot over the tops of the glasses he was wearing that morning because his contacts and his allergies weren't playing well together.

"I need to ask you a favor, Hardison." The first time, Eliot had only mustered a growl, but this time he managed to speak like a relatively civilized, if somewhat aggrieved, human being.

"That's kinda what I thought you said, but then I remembered this is you and you're all 'rawr, I'm a lone wolf, all you do is tippy tap at your little computer and squeal like a girl when Parker throws you off things' and so you'll forgive my very understandable confusion." This was almost too good, until he noticed the look on Eliot's face. 

It was murderous. It was cold. It was sad. 

"Hey, man. Okay, what do you need?" Hardison may have lived to poke Eliot, but that look wasn't to be fucked with, and the younger man knew for once it wasn't directed at him. Something had Eliot really worked up.

"A friend of mine just got outta prison. There's some animals in there who need to get put down." No point in lying, apparently. Which meant that this was a hell of a close friend, and these 'animals' did some fucked up shit and got away with it.

"Wouldn't happen to be that friend I looked up for you couple years ago, would it?" Pretty little thing, Hardison had thought at the time, and apparently a Sophie Devereaux-level grifter. Eliot had never said why he'd wanted that information. Hardison had figured Eliot was weighing a jail break. Hell of a good friend, it would seem.

"Yeah. I know it isn't gonna be anywhere in the official records, but I figure there would be incident reports, infirmary admissions, patterns in his work rotations, that kinda thing." Eliot eased onto the stool next to Hardsion, watching the man's deft fingers fly over the keys. He'd never admit it, not even under torture, but what Hardison did was like magic to him. 

"Yeah, that's where you start...with stuff like that." Hardison's brow furrowed and he threw up a screen onto the big display with a flick of his mouse and then studied it, tracing what even Eliot knew by this point were IP addresses. 

"Hey, he's really pretty. Whatcha doing?" They both about jumped out of their skin when they turned and saw Parker, hanging upside down in the pantry cupboard with a box of fortune cookies in her hands, equally upside down so they wouldn't spill. 

"Jesus fucking Christ, Parker, what the hell is wrong with you?" Eliot growled, but Hardison just grinned. Only thing he loved more than how utterly, mind-bendingly weird Parker was, was how much it pissed off Eliot. 

"I was just looking for my fortune cookies." She turned the box and set it on the ground without spilling any, then grabbed one and opened it. "You guys were all serious, but I was getting really super bored waiting for you to be done so I came out." Still hanging upside down, Parker snagged a cookie and opened it, intoning the fortune printed on the slip of paper. "You will soon embark upon a journey that will test your deepest spiritual fortitude." 

"Get the hell down from there, Parker I swear to god." Eliot managed to ANGRILY tie his hair back with an elastic, while Parker swung to the ground right side up. 

"So really, what are you doing? I wanna help." Parker crawled up on the bar and crossed her legs, watching the screens. "Are you gonna break him outta jail?" 

"He's already out of jail, baby girl," Hardison answered, accepting her offer of help even if Eliot was still too busy glowering. Eilot knew how helpful Parker would be. Hardison knew he knew. It was just gonna be a matter of time before Eliot could admit it. "He ended up getting himself leashed onto the White Collar Crimes division of the FBI's New York office." 

"Oh fuck, Peter Burke?" The man was a bit of a legend. "Wait, is that NEAL CAFFREY?" Parker clapped her hands excitedly and wiggled. "I always wanted to meet him!" Like she had a trading card hidden away somewhere in her 'world's best bad guys' collection.' 

"YES. It's Neal Caffrey, and he's pretty much my best friend in the fucking world, and I'm trying to make some assholes who hurt him in prison pay for what they did. Happy now?" Eliot spat out the words and turned back to the screen, tense, waiting for Hardison to get back to work.

"You mean he got raped in jail?" Parker sobered up immediately, saying it outright when the boys had been dancing around it. "What are you two waiting for? Why would you think that would make me happy? Get back to it, Hardison."

From that point on, Hardison had two sets of eyeballs on everything he did, but fortunately he was used to working with an audience at this point. Finding the infirmary admittance reports and supposedly sealed descriptions of injuries and treatments was child's play. It was only after he started digging into the personal lives of the guards who were on duty during the shifts before, during, and after Neal was admitted that he started seeing a pattern. 

"So, you guys know that no matter how fucked up someone's fetishes are, there's somewhere on the internet to accommodate them, right?" Hardison knew what he was closing in on, and he knew it wasn't going to be all right. He knew it was going to be pretty fucking awful, actually. He'd taken down a lot of these forums in his time--it was the work of moments for him, but all those big players, the huge sites with so many sub-sites they weren't so much like spiders but like giant sucking squids, those were harder to touch. It was on a site like that, where in some sub-forums people were exchanging pics of their puppies, that apparently another sub-sub-sub forum was exchanging rape vids. Add another 'sub' to the list and you ended up at 'prison rape vids' hilariously grouped under the heading of 'some stupid slut dropped the soap.' 

Three of the guards at the prison were on that forum. There wasn't just one video, there were at least a dozen, and Neal had a pseudonym of sorts: Blue Eyes.

"I know how fucked up the internet can be, yes, Hardison. What are you getting at?" Eliot looked at the lines of code on the monitors, unable to see in them what Hardison could see. Parker had subconsciously scooched closer to Eliot because she really didn't know what was going on, and that always freaked her out. 

"Just...shit, Eliot. I'm so fucking sorry, man." He took the line of video code, pasted it into a player and there was Neal. It was the first video, and he looked so damned young it even broke Hardison's heart all the way from the lofty old age of 25. 

Eliot went still as the first inmate's fist connected with Neal's jaw, forcing it open with his other hand and shoving his cock inside. At least four other men were on him, and the camera was held always at angles and in ways that Neal wouldn't see it. His rapists were joking about new meat being the sweetest and dear fucking god it just went on and on, well past the point where Neal was suffocating on tears and snot and the blood from his split lip and his ass was torn and bleeding. 

It went on, even after Hardison looked away and Parker slapped her hands right over her eyes. Eliot watched. He bore witness. It was all he could do, and by the time it ended, and Neal's body was lying broken on the dirty concrete, covered with bite marks and bruises and come. Still, after that, after all that, Eliot was shocked that he was crying. That he'd walked over to the monitors and touched Neal's face. Hardison cut the feed and suddenly Parker was on him, leaning up to wrap her arms around his waist and squeeze as hard as she could, which was shockingly hard. 

"Shhh. Stop it. Seriously, stop it, you're scaring me," she declared, voice muffled against his shoulder. Eliot couldn't stop. 

Hardison watched them, conflicted, but then he couldn't stay away. Something about Eliot crying just fucking killed him, and he wrapped his arms around both of them. Any second, this was going to end in a lot of yelling and threatening, but right now, Hardison had to do SOMETHING, and something was hugging his friends.

"I'm gonna kill them.." It was a simple statement of fact. Eliot wasn't asking their permission, or for their advice. Or for their help.

"'Course you are," Hardison said, his voice suspiciously thick. If this guy was important enough to Eliot to make the man cry, much less in front of anyone, then there was no doubt. 

"And we're gonna help," Parker added.

Eliot tore himself free of their arms, scrubbing at his eyes angrily. He managed a tight "thank you" and a terse nod before he practically flew out of that room, off to wherever he lived when he wasn't working with them. 

**

**Neal and Peter, New York City**

**

"Not even out a week and...fraternizing with known criminals?" Peter had called Neal into his office as soon as they'd hit the Bureau, closing the door.

"He's my best friend, Peter." Neal wasn't going to apologize, even if it cost him some of Peter's hard-won trust. He swore the man kept a ledger, and trust was the only currency that counted, and you could only gain it on his terms and by his definitions. "And you can call it what it really was, you know."

"Okay, so not even out a week and having sex with your best friend who's popped up on the radar of just about every law enforcement agency on goddamned Planet Earth?" Peter was as much worried as he was angry; Neal could see that. It was one of the things that made him want to earn Peter's trust, his approval. The man gave a crap about him, even if it was wrapped up naive obsessions with law and propriety and boy scout honor.

"Eliot's not wanted anywhere we even have an extradition treaty with, and you know that." So there was no point whatsoever in chasing the man down, or so Neal devoutly hoped. "Are you more upset that I was having sex, that it was with a man, or that it was Eliot?"

From the way Peter's jaw clenched, Neal knew the answer was pretty much 'all of the above.' "I'm upset that you're seeing someone who has the skills and resources to disappear you right out from under my nose."

"You don't have to worry about that. I told him no." 

"He offered?" Peter's eyebrows went up at the easy admission.

"Almost begged, especially when we really started talking about the past four years. But in the end I made him see how important it is for me to stay right where I am." His eyes, huge and penetrating and so blue it hurt, flicked up and caught Peter's holding them. Holding them for too long, allowing his lips to part just the smallest distance, enough that Peter could make out the pink tip of his tongue pressing down.

Now Peter had some crucial new pieces of information: Neal fucked men; Neal had the chance to run; Neal refused to stay by his side. The grifter saw Peter's cheeks flush, just a bit, and his eyes dilate minutely. Oh yes, attention attracted. Attracted, attached to a specific desire (probably at this point to bend Neal over the nearest horizontal surface), and focused on the sense of shame and guilt that inevitably followed.

Poor Peter. Neal almost felt sorry for him. 

**

**Neal and June, New York City**

**

It was late at night, an hour where nothing seems quite real, and yet Neal always found himself trying to hang onto his phantoms. Eliot, Kate. Himself, for that matter. 

June leaned across the table on the balcony to refill his scotch, then her own. Somehow she'd known not to leave him alone tonight, that it was a night to settle in with the good stuff and a friend and try and keep the wolves at the door away. "He seemed like...well, I can't say a good man, exactly, can I?"

"That depends on your parameters. He doesn't hurt innocents, doesn't use guns. Has the gentlest hands, even though they're deadly." Neal loved Eliot's hands. He took a deep drink, too deep really, and let the smooth burn rip through his chest. "He's been kind to me, over and over, when he didn't have to be. When most other people wouldn't have been."

"Sounds like a warrior, to me. Not lily white, but not a monster by my way of looking at things. So then I'll say that Eliot seemed like he cared very deeply for you." That much, no one could dispute at this point.

"It's pretty much mutual." Neal's hand tightened on the crystal. 

"You should've gone with him, baby boy." June leaned back, more than a little drunk. Drinking erased all those years where she was alone and aging, took her back in her head to when every fella wanted her. When the only man who could have her was her beautiful Byron.

"Can't. Just can't risk it, June." Neal smiled sadly at her over the table. "God knows he tried to convince me." 

"Honey, if I had that on tap, wild horses couldn't hold me back." 

"But if I got caught again...I would go back to jail. I can't. Go. Back." And he was actually getting tired of explaining this to everyone. 

June took a moment, then nodded slowly. "You know what you have to do, I hope?"

"You mean win Peter's trust, become a model, upright citizen, do everything he says and nothing he doesn't..." Neal's lips turned up at the corners.

June snorted softly. "We both know that ain't how it's gonna go down." Because Peter's standards were impossibly high, and Neal was what Neal was, and that would never be good enough.

"I need to get into his pants." 

"And you need to stay there." She reached over and patted Neal's arm. "At least he's handsome."

"And married, and in love with his wife, and kind of the real deal." 

"Then you need both of them." 

"Yeah. I know. Let the tension build till he loses it, then watch him go on a shame spiral, so disappointed in himself but still wanting it so bad..."

"Then show him all the cards, with a neat little story about how he doesn't have to choose because he can have you and his wife and bam. Your little finger has a brand new FBI decoration."

Neal made a face. "I hate this. He's a good person. His wife is incredible."

"Just 'cause you have to do some engineering to make it happen, doesn't mean it has to be fake, sweetheart. Maybe you'll be really happy when you got all the plates spinning. But you'll definitely be a hell of a lot safer." June knew. She just did.

"You're speaking from experience." It wasn't an accusation. He wouldn't judge her anymore than Eliot would judge him.

"How do you think a poor girl from the Bronx snagged a man like Byron?" 

"By being absolutely, shatteringly exquisite and completely amazing." Neal took her hand in his and gently kissed the knuckles, and she allowed it. 

"And conniving as hell." June withdrew her hand from Neal's, then got to her feet, steady despite having one too many. She squeezed his shoulder as she headed inside. "You just do what you have to do to stay in the game."

"Yes, ma'am."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify, I don't have an update schedule per se, since I'm juggling two (er, three) WIPs right now, but it'll be roughly weekly. Thank you all for your support, kudos, and compliments. This is a random little pairing, but I am glad everyone seems to be enjoying it! Y'all are the best!


	6. Chapter 6--Down in the Darkness where No Light Reaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot exacts retribution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Yes, it's THAT chapter, my dears.  
> 2\. Warning for serious gore. Alternate title should be: 'How Much Gore Can Eliot Spencer Inflict with 2 Bare Hands and 1 Swiss Army Knife?'  
> 3\. Hope payback a) doesn't disappoint, and b) makes you a little scared of Eliot. You should be scared. He's a monster, but he's a monster with the right leashes on him.

**One Month Later--Eliot, Hardison, and Parker, Sing Sing Supermax Block, New York**

**

Eliot shuffled along the line of inmates, eyes down, unkempt hair falling across his face. This place didn't faze him--it was a holiday compared to some of the hellholes he'd been kept in. But then, he could protect himself. It had taken one fight in the showers to establish that he was in the 'not to be fucked with' category, regardless of the fact that he had no gang affiliations. 

It broke his heart, imagining Neal here, defenseless. The kid was scrappy, but he just didn't have the training or body mass to fight back. This block was a goddamned zoo--unlike most facilities of its kind, Sing Sing's supermax facilities allowed for more interaction between prisoners--two and a half hours per day, rather than the typical one. That might sound 'nicer' but when you're talking about a stew of violent, hgh-risk offenders it was anything but. It was the fucking jungle.

Why had they put Neal here? Just being a flight risk shouldn't have been enough. Some judge with a hard-on for punishing pretty boys probably thought this would 'teach him a lesson.' Well, it had surely made a fucking impact, but it was also bringing down some pretty Biblical retribution, if their plan works to spec.

The plan, Jesus. 

Hardison had found more of those videos, starring a kid who seemed to be Neal's replacement. Turns out the boy was in that block although all he'd been convicted of was larceny because of his brother's notorious cartel connections. Rafael was just a kid, eighteen and change, small for his age and downright beautiful. Or at least he had been. 

Parker had gotten in to see him during an infirmary visit on a fake social worker ID, explained to him that they could make the men who were hurting him go away forever. Somehow, she'd mustered the tact NOT to tell him that videos of him were online, instead lying and saying that a human rights organization was trying to halt the flood of guard-inmate violence in this facility. And if he'd just help their operative when he arrived, arrange for him to take Rafael's place during the next 'appointment,' they could arrange for a transfer to a minimum security prison and for him to parole out earlier than he'd dared to hope for.

Rafael hadn't exactly leapt at the chance--he was already so beaten down--but Parker paid him several visits and convinced him just by being there. By showing up, and giving a shit about him, listening to him. Hardison liked to think of it as a double-win: they got help from someone inside, and Parker got practice with her people skills. 

Okay, it was a little hard to hide this big a job from Nate and Sophie, but Hardison was managing it, pulling all the right little strings into loops to keep them busy on something else. And even Eliot was kinda sure that Nate knew something was going on, it was clear Nate was going to let the kids run with this one and let himself get distracted.If he'd known that the job would end in actual corpses maybe Nate would have been legitimately worried.

They weren't supposed to be THAT kind of bad anymore. 

Eliot really didn't care.

Parker passed word from Rafael that he'd heard the guards talking about how much they were looking forward to 'fourth shift,' which was their code for grabbing the current favorite and engaging in yet another round of amateur cinematography. It was almost laughably easy to get Rafael to the infirmary for a faked stomach flu, and Eliot into his cell. Sure, Eliot wasn't pretty, but with his hair down and his eyes looking up from under his lashes, he could sure as hell attract attention. 

"Where the fuck is that little shit Rafael?" barked the first guard, a man named Patrick Robinson. Everything about him was as unremarkable as his name--his bland face, his brown, mousy hair, his lackluster physique, his casual cruelty. There was something about that package, the utter banality of the man and his entitled belief that he had a right to do as he pleased with the bodies of other human beings, that disgusted Eliot down to the core. Patrick was going to find out just how disgusted.

The second guard, Aaron Mason, was just a revolting pervert who at least had the minimal honesty to admit it. 

"He's sick, but he's my friend and I didn't want him to get in trouble, so I said I'd go for him." Eliot forced himself to shy back from the men as if skittish, as if he were actually afraid. He was wearing a too-big tee shirt under a lumpy prison jumpsuit, to hide his powerful build and make himself seem non-threatening. 

"I didn't think that little slut had any friends," Mason laughed, lifting up Eliot's hair to see a face more handsome than pretty. "Eh, I dunno. What do you think, Pat?"

"I think he'll do just fine. Nothing wrong with changing things up once in a while." His hand grabbed hard and unforgiving at Eliot's arm, while his comrade took the other, bullying him out of the cell even though he was going willingly. 

"I know we still got people wanting more from Blue Eyes." They both laughed over that, and it took Hardison talking in his earpiece, low and urgent, to rein in Eliot's murderous need to make them bleed and bleed and... "Here we go, precious." 

He was shoved into a windowless room with a metal cot and nothing else. It was big enough for six men, and soon enough three inmates entered. They were lifers, nothing to lose, and Eliot recognized every single one of them. The usual fucking suspects, willing to go along, eager to go along, just to get their rocks off or an extra few bucks at the prison store. 

"Hey, hey...you don't have to get rough. I'll play nice." Eliot held up his hands to show he was serious, then he stripped off the top of his jumpsuit, letting Robinson manhandle him so his face was against the wall. The schtick was that the victims never knew they were being filmed, and that was accomplished through a variety of tricks. If they couldn't avoid the camera or wanted a particular angle that would reveal it, then they just blindfolded the boy. 

Eliot pretended to tremble as two of the lifers ripped his tee shirt right off him, laughing at the way he cringed. Oh yeah, every bit of the next few minutes was well fucking earned. The two inmates holding him while the third started ripping the jumpsuit the rest of the way down went down hard and fast, stunned but not dead. Not yet. None of them get off that easily.

One he could regain his feet, he was practically a blur, bodies dropping until the only one left was Robinson. He'd dropped the camera and gone for his taser but Eliot crushed the taser and the hand around it against the ugly cinderblock wall, grinning ferally as the bastard sank to his knees with a howl. He secured Robinson to the bed frame, hastily put up on its side to act as an impromptu platform, using his own zip-tie cuffs secure him and ratcheting the one around his injured wrist even tighter. 

The man was moaning and begging, but Eliot paid no attention. His rage was cold, hard, calculating. He was here to do a job, and he would do it, this time, to his own satisfaction. Not his clients', his. And bantering with this scum was not what he would find satisfying. 

He tore off a hank of fabric from the jumpsuit and shoved it in Robinson's mouth so he wouldn't have to hear the bastard's bargaining and mewling, then he bodily hauled up one of the three inmates, starting with the biggest and strongest because he always liked to get the hard part over with first. 

Still stunned from having his shaved head bounced against the wall (and oh look, a lovingly-rendered jailhouse swastika right there on his fucking skull, what a winner) the man was easy to maneuver down to his knees, facing Robinson. Eliot's hand dug into the mandibular joints at each side of his mouth, forcing it open and his head back. "Hurts like fuck, don't it? You did this to my friend, so you could force him to suck you off. I'm about to kill you, and I want you to know--you're dying for what you did to Neal Caffrey." It takes more force than one would suppose to snap a neck, but Eliot's powerful form had strength to spare. The crack wasn't particularly loud, but it made Robinson wet himself which was pretty fucking gratifying. 

Eliot dumped the bastard's body in a corner and picked up the next inmate. "So now you know why I'm here." The third inmate was stirring, obviously contemplating an attack or an escape, but Eliot got ahead of him, using a well placed kick to the sternum to shove him down again. He had his hand deep in the second man's scraggly hair, hauling him around by it hard enough to rip. 

The weaselly man was gibbering "please don't fuck me, please don't make me your bitch" and Eliot had to laugh. "What? You honestly think I would let my dick anywhere near any of you. It's a miracle you didn't get him sick--you fucking disgust me." And because this one had the gall to even suggest such a thing, his death was slower. Took quite a few slams against the cinderblock wall before the skull gave way and his hands were slicked with blood and clots of brain. He wiped them on the Robinson's uniform--avoiding the damp patch of course. 

This was a side of Eliot he seldom indulged--had never fully indulged, not like this. He wouldn't go home later and take endless scalding showers, he wouldn't lose sleep, or fantasize that he couldn't get his hands clean. That's what these sons of bitches did to their victims, did to his Neal. Made them feel dirty and used and un-loveable. Eliot? Eliot made his peace with the particular monster that lived inside him a long, long time ago. 

He loved his monster.

Inmate number three was still lolling his head about, barely conscious, so Eliot just reiterated for the man why he was here, why he was dying, before wrapping a big hand around his throat and pinning him to the bloody wall. Eliot squeezed until things in the throat popped satisfyingly and the man drew his last, gurgled, pathetic breath. The corpse was thrown onto the growing pile in the corner. 

Three down, two to go. And what a pair they were. 

Mason was just coming around when Eliot picked him up by the scruff of his uniform, making sure the man got a good look at the dead inmates and the sorry state of his partner before settling him on his knees at Eliot's feet. The man was shaking in a rather gratifying manner. "You're here because of what you and your friend did to Neal Caffrey. We found your little video enterprise, and we shut it down. But the fact remains, you hurt my friend, you hurt someone that I love, and he'll have to live with that every day of his life. I don't expect either of you to understand, or to have one ounce of empathy, but I want you to go knock on Lucifer's door with the full understanding of why you're there." 

"Don't! Don't, I have kids! Three kids!" Mason sniveled. 

"Jesus fucking Christ, I bet you can't even keep your hands off them, can you? You post dirty pictures of your babies online, too?" Eliot's lip curled in a disgusted sneer, particularly when he saw the man flinch at the words. "Fuck. You sick, disgusting fuck." 

Eliot hauled the man up shoved him against the wall, held him there with one hand to his throat while the other yanked at the heavy belt with its selection of gear. When Mason's dick and balls were bare, he looked back up at the man. "Two things. One, the insurance payout from the state for your death in the line of duty will do more for your kids than your sorry, pathetic ass ever could. Two, you would be amazed at how little strength it actually takes to rip through skin, if you don't care about the lines being all nice and neat. I don't give a fuck for nice and neat." With that he grabbed dangling flesh and yanked with his not inconsiderable strength, pulling hard to free the organs from their host and using them as a gag to stop his screaming. 

He was gouting blood and Eliot dropped him on the pile to bleed out and finish the job, turning to an ashen and shaking Robinson. "I bet you're wondering, Pat, what I have planned for you, considering that Mason went out so hard." Eliot's blood hand went through the man's pockets, brought out a Swiss army knife. 

"The thing is, Pat," he spat the name like it tasted foul, "the worst part of what you did to the man I love is that you put things into his brain he'll have to live with for the rest of his life. There may never be a day when I can put a hand on his shoulder from behind, or when I can look at him and see the same joy in those pretty, pretty **Blue Eyes**. Ah, I bet right now you think I'm gonna let you go, don't you? Make you live with this." 

Robinson's eyes lit up with hope, only to be met by Eliot's feral grin. "Nope. You're gonna die in here. You're just gonna do it slowly. So fucking slowly. I got friends who'll make sure no one comes down to this little dungeon of yours for days. Days down here, nursing a festering gut wound, with your buddies rotting around you...trust me, it'll feel like eternity. It'll feel like the rest of your life because that's all you'll have. This room, this pain, this is your life now."

Eliot opened the pocket knife and ripped open the polyester uniform shirt, using the small blade to dig in and open up a ragged wound. He thrust deeper, lower, not stopping until the damage was irreversible, until he smelled the stink when he connected with bowel and opened it, flooding the man's abdominal cavity with rot. "Ah...yeah, there it is." Robinson was screaming incoherently through the gag, but when Eliot stepped back and dropped the knife he went limp, staring at his murderer with blank eyes. 

After double-checking that the other four were dead, Eliot used Robinson's keys to open the lock, pulling in a small duffel that had been dropped outside by Parker sometime during the festivities. He cleaned himself up with the bottles of water and towelettes and changed into the fresh prison uniform inside. When you've removed all traces of your presence so many times, it took him all of five minutes to clean up the scene. After tying his hair back, he took one more look at what he'd done, smiled, and ducked out the door.

Parker, dressed as a guard, picked him up at the end of the hallway and escorted him to the exit she'd prepared. "Feel better?" 

"Much." 

"Good." He could see the hint of a smile she was under the brim of her baseball cap.

Now he could look Neal in the eyes, on the off chance he ever got to see him again, and tell him that those men will never, ever hurt him again. And he'll mean every single word of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all could follow me on Tumblr :) https://www.tumblr.com/blog/songaboutexiles I'm going to start giving writing updates there on all my series and WiPs and what I have planned. Also, feel free to put any requests in my ask box--I can't promise I'll get to them, but I'm really interested in hearing what y'alls twisted little brains come up with!


	7. Things That Stop Your Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Neal take their relationship to a new place; Peter and Eliot start an old-fashioned epistolary romance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I am SO SORRY it has taken me SO LONG to update. I started my meds again after I finished the last chapter, and creativity is unfortunately the price of sanity. Damn it all.  
> 2\. This chapter is nice and long so hopefully it makes up for the delay.  
> 3\. Title from the eponymous song by Passenger.

Neal and Peter, New York City, One Week Later

**  
Peter closed the file on his desk and took a deep, unsteady breath. His fingertips rested on the cardboard of the green folder and he pressed them down until they'd stopped shaking. Someone had sent it to him as an FYI, but his agile brain put together the pieces of the puzzle so fast it left him dizzy.

Not only did someone (several someones?) infiltrate Neal's former cell block at Sing Sing, they left five dead bodies in their wake. Two guards, three inmates. The guards had died hard, compared to the inmates, but nobody in that stinking room had exactly got off easy. While deplorable, that kind of violence was only to be expected in such a place, amongst such violent men...except for the leaks that came after. 

Anonymous online sources released damning proof that the two guards were the ringleaders of a rape and torture porn site, and even with the faces of the victims blurred out, the stills from the videos were nauseating. In the third still, he saw an entirely-too-familiar head of tousled black hair, a flash of long, lean, pale flank, and he'd known. He'd known like someone had just kicked him in the gut.

It was Neal. It was his Neal. How could he have never checked on Neal in all of those years? How could he have begrudged Neal whatever friendship he needed to make himself feel better? He was sure, surer than sure, that Eliot Spencer was behind this somehow. But Peter had not one shred of proof, and yes, he could go to the agent in charge and tip her off. He could, but he wouldn't.

God help him, but those men deserved to die. And he wasn't going to help the Agency find the man responsible, maybe because he himself felt just as responsible. 

With his usual impeccable timing, Neal knocked twice on his door before coming in and pouring himself into the second chair, setting a cup of coffee in front of Peter and cradling his own. "I'm not sure how you have the mental fortitude for the paperwork that comes with this job, but you have my sincere admiration." 

Peter looked up at him and narrowed his eyes, searching the handsome face for some kind of sign, like the younger man was an ancient oracle. Like he should be branded somehow with the suffering he'd endured. But no, Neal was perfect. On the outside, at least. Perfect suit, perfectly knotted tie, not an artfully messy strand of hair out of place. Peter had to admire the sheer effort that must go into maintaining his charade.

Under those ridiculous, beautiful clothes, was he hiding scars? Was he vulnerable and lost, still? 

Neal, sensing the strange mood, looked up at him through his lashes, sipping from his cup. Peter was clearly upset about something, and for once Neal was completely sure it wasn't something he'd done. His brow furrowed slightly, and when Peter's eyes met his he held the man's gaze fearlessly. Never waste an opportunity. "What's the matter, Peter?" he asked softly.

"Nothing. Nothing that concerns you, or should concern you." Ordinarily, Peter would snap those words at him, to get Neal's inquisitive nose out of whatever he was working on. This afternoon, they came out gentle, gentle enough to make Neal lean forward across the desk.

"Okay, Peter. I'm not pressing for information, I'm just worried. I left you in here twenty minutes ago and you were fine, now you look like you've seen a ghost." Neal pitched his voice low, so that the distance of the desk between them became something intimate.

"It's four o'clock. We should leave." It sounded like it came out of Peter without Peter even authorizing it. 

"You want to leave work early with me." Neal gave a small, lopsided smile. "Come back to my place--I still have beer." 

"When you put it that way, how can I refuse?" Neal could practically see whatever inchoate plans Peter was hatching fly out the window in favor of spending time alone with him. Like Peter was just waiting for an excuse.

"It wouldn't be gentlemanly at all." Neal stood and gave him his best, enigmatic little smile, the one he knows has an effect on Peter. The 'I solemnly swear I'm up to no good' smile. The combination of implying that Neal is feminine enough that Peter should be polite and respectful and his mouth doing that THING Peter likes so much...well. This afternoon should prove interesting.

The short drive back to June's was mostly silent, but not a tense sort of silence. Peter wouldn't be tossing aside his deeply held morals the second they cleared the threshold. They simply existed in each other's space, and Neal made sure he kept looking at the older man, sideways, from under his lashes. He made sure Peter noticed, too.

Inside Neal's flat, he fetched Peter a beer and opened it. "Please, make yourself comfortable. I'm in for the night unless something else comes up, so I'm going to change. I'll be right back." He opened a bottle of wine and left it to breathe before going into the changing room and pulling out jeans and a slim-fitting v-neck tee shirt that hugged the long lines of his body perfectly. 

Staring at himself in the mirror, all Neal saw was a character. A meticulously-played character who was completely in control of this situation. _Keep the plates spinning long enough, and maybe you can actually be happy._ It was an echo of June's advice, but it had become his mantra. This was his life. He'd made his choice to stop running.

Peter took the beer and looked around the flat again. He wasn't sure if he was looking for evidence of that elusive 'something' or if he was just trying to figure out, again, how Neal lived without a couch and a TV. 

Peter would be shocked by the things that Neal had learned how to live without.

When Neal padded silently back into the room, Peter stared. Peter had seen him shirtless more than once, but, as Neal well knew, sometimes seeing someone clothed just right was more of an erotic shock than bare skin. He poured himself a glass of wine and sat down across from Peter. "You know, you could lose the jacket and tie. I won't tell anyone." 

Peter considered, then noded, getting up to shrug out of his jacket, laying it across the back of the nearest chair, tie joining a moment later. "So, is that your 'normal guy' suit?"

Neal's lips quirked. _Peter, Jesus, you're going to be a giant pain in my ass; you're too smart._ "Can't I just dress in more comfortable clothes to hang around my house? I contemplated pajama pants, but I thought that might be a little weird." 

"Maybe a little," Peter conceded, drinking his beer. "I'm getting used to weird where you're concerned. Between your choice of friends, your clothes, and your complete lack of entertainment options, you have to admit that you're a little unusual." 

Neal chose to believe that Peter was referring to Mozzie and not Eliot, so he could smile back at the man self-deprecatingly. "I don't have a lack of entertainment options. I'm reading three different books right now in two different languages, I've got a painting AND a sculpture in progress, and if I want to watch a movie, I curl up in bed with my laptop. I usually only want to do that if it's been a particularly terrible day, though." 

"I like reading as much as the next guy, but I couldn't live without the sports package on my cable and my big-screen TV." Peter knows he's as much a stereotype in his way as Neal is in his own, but to Peter, HIS stereotype was the only sensible way for a male to behave. He wasn't a homophobe and he didn't hate the arts, but it just didn't resonate for him. Neal resonated with him, though, with an aching thrum he couldn't get out of his head.

"I suppose we're just a case for opposites attracting." Neal knew that was perhaps too forward, but it was a calculated risk to take advantage of a perfect opening. 

"I guess that's as good an explanation as any for why we're friends. Becoming friends. I don't even know what we are." And here Peter was having a relationship discussion. Did he even know the extent to which he was already eating out of Neal's hand?

"Friends is a good place to start." But not the only place to end.

Peter drained his beer quickly, almost in self-defense, flushing just a little. Neal got up to get him another, letting his shirt ride up a tiny bit to show a bare flash of pale skin. He drank his glass of wine, too--being a little drunk wouldn't upset his own game, and it would make it easier if Peter thought they were on parity.

Drinks refreshed, he sat back down, but next to Peter this time, at the head of the table instead of across. "Are you doing okay, Neal?"

The question obviously surprised him. "I...well. I'm worried about Kate, but you know that. Otherwise, I'm fine. I'm good." And not going anywhere, he felt like adding for the hundred millionth time because he was so tired of Peter's assumptions.

"All right. Just...you'd tell me if you weren't, right? If something was eating at you?" Peter picked at the label of his already half-gone second bottle. 

Neal wanted to hug him, right then, for being basically such a decent human being even when it couldn't have felt comfortable for him. He reached out and stilled the nervous plucking of Peter's fingers with his own, making the other man look him in the eyes. "Yes. But I think you'd already know if that was the case." 

Peter wondered again how a blue like that could even be natural. And damn his weakness for smart, leggy, sassy brunettes. "Would I? Neal...I know you're trying hard. Just...you're not in this alone." He hadn't even thought to snatch his hand back from Neal's.

"I'll try to remember that. I'm used to carrying my own burdens." His thumb traced the curve of Peter's wrist lightly, gently prying it from the bottle so the path could continue across a calloused palm. In a way, Peter's hands were a lot like Eliot's, and that made this a bothersome mix of easier and harder. 

"What are you doing, Neal?" Peter whispered, eyes drawn to Neal's hand on his. 

"It's not so much what I'm doing, Peter, as what I'm about to do," Neal murmured back, leaning over the table to press his mouth against the older man's. It was a soft swipe of lips, but he lingered after, right there, mouth so close to Peter's it would take the merest movement forward to kiss him again. 

Peter stared at him, mesmerized. "Why would you do that?"

"Because we both wanted it," Neal explained, as if to a child, leaning forward microscopically to do it again. This time he held the kiss longer, let one of his hands curl around Peter's bicep, waiting patiently until Peter reached out to touch his face with the tips of his fingers.

"You know I can't do this." El was everything to him...or she had been, until this infuriating kid had come along. His obsession, his passion, and apparently his Achilles' heel since he's not pulling away.

"I know, Peter. I know how much you love her. I'm crazy about her myself." Neal slid his slender body into the older man's lap, thighs framing Peter's hips. "But I'm pretty crazy about you, too. You don't have to do anything, Peter." This time, his tongue touched Peter's lower lip, and he opened up with a shuddering gasp.

Peter may not have been operating under a single obligation, but he kissed Neal like a drowning man surfacing for a desperate lungful of sweet air. Neal was a little unprepared for how fierce Peter was, how he threw himself into his sin like he sinned every day. 

And Neal knew that if he didn't get back control, Peter would just rush right through this, be rough, be **angry** about it all, and his plan would backfire. Although that hunger was...pretty fucking tempting. Neal liked it a bit too much.

"Shh...been wanting this too long to...," he whispered against Peter's mouth, tipping his head back just enough to break the kiss and pull his tee shirt up and off, intentionally exposing the pale line of his throat. He'd been intending to say something about taking it slow and easy and savoring it, but Peter's teeth clamping down hard on the join of his shoulder and neck made the words fly out of his head and his hips buck up. 

It was just this side of too much, like maybe Peter had some idea that he needed to wipe a certain other gruff older man out of Neal's mind, off his skin. The throaty little moan must have been pretty intoxicating, because Peter grabbed on harder when Neal started to pull away.

_Down boy,no permanent marks for you,_ Neal thought, licking his lips and wiggling from Peter's grasp to slide gracefully down onto his knees between the older man's spread thighs. Holding Peter's eyes, he reached for belt and zipper, wrenching and pulling till they were open and he could reach inside for Peter's really rather nice cock. 

Neal would have wagered Peter was new to anything with other guys, but maybe he just figured that you didn't have to be quite so...considerate. His hand went right to Neal's soft hair and tugged him in, and Neal grinned and took him inside, tip to root, in one long, slow swallow. Some things you don't forget. And it wasn't that Peter was being rough, just particularly single-minded. As in, "Fuck, fuck, Neal, yes, Jesus fucking Christ..." How could Neal object to that?

He suckled firmly but slowly, neither wanting to tease nor to rush, and Peter was just a mess of moaning, groaning, grasping at his hair then remembering to let go. It was hot, and sweet, and Neal freed his own cock to stroke it deliberately. When Peter made a funny noise, he flicked those blue eyes up to Peter's face. The other man was watching, not the progress of his mouth, but the cadence of his hand on his own flesh. Apparently, it was as good as porn, because Peter made another grab for his hair and ground out, "Faster."

Faster, Neal could do, but 'faster' was only the start of it. His tongue pressed hard and flat on the throbbing vein running along the underside, then flicked at the ridge just beneath the head, and he took Peter's whole cock into his throat with every stroke. Knowing that Peter wasn't going to last long at this rate, he let his eyes drift shut and brought on his own orgasm, hard and quick, and he wasn't at all surprised when Peter made a rough, almost broken noise and came for him right on cue. 

Neal swallowed it all, then looked up at Peter, judging his mood. Lick his hand clean teasingly, or wipe it on the dish towel folded on the kitchen table? Peter was looking down at him like he was some kind of cocksucking alien genetic experiment, so Neal used the towel, then gently tucked Peter and himself back in before daring greatly to climb back up to straddle Peter's lap. No mouth kissing, he judged, so he nuzzled along Peter's jaw. This was a crucial moment, and he couldn't fuck it up.

"Sorry, I was...would have warned you..." Peter murmured, trying to figure out what to do with his hands before stroking awkwardly up and down Neal's narrow, bare back. 

"It's okay, I like it." Neal smiled against Peter's cheek. "Did you like it?"

Peter snorted. "I think you know the answer to that question. You're pretty damn amazing." His hands stilled and the awkwardness between them bloomed. Neal slid off his lap before he even had to say anything. 

Always better to leave before they told you that you weren't wanted anymore. Dignity, and all that.

"This doesn't have to be weird, Peter." Neal curled up in the chair opposite, and reached for his wine. "I would never tell. And...it doesn't need to just be this one time."

"Oh? You think I should just keep cheating on my wife?" Peter was angry at himself, but taking it out on the 'seducer.' Neal had expected it.

"I think you underestimate Elizabeth," he murmured in return. _Careful, careful gambit._

"What? You think she'd be fine with me fucking around with you?" 

"I think...for the moment she doesn't need to know. And then I think if you let me, I can make all three of us very...content." Careful, careful.

"You're crazy," Peter shook his head. "That kind of thing may work in your circles, but that's not the sort of thing we do." 

"What? Screw convention and make your own happiness the way you want to? Maybe this one time, you can take the lesson from me. You'd be surprised what happiness can look like." Or feel like. Or be approximated by, in Neal's case. 

"I still think you're crazy." Which was entirely likely, of course, but Neal could tell the idea was percolating. He sipped his wine, passed Peter his half-full beer. "I should get home."

"Of course, Peter." That was a weird twinge of disappointment, even though he'd been expecting Peter to run. But this, too, Neal could handle with grace. He helped Peter back into his jacket and handed him his tie, carefully folded, to put in his pocket. After a daring kiss to the cheek that wasn't rebuffed, he showed Peter to the door.

Once it was closed, he padded into the bathroom to wash his face and look at the bite mark. Not quite through the skin, but it would bruise like anything--in fact it had already purpled. He healed well, and didn't mark easily despite how fragile-looking his porcelain skin was. 

When there was another knock at the door, he sighed heavily and shrugged into his tee shirt, prepared for Peter to be back at his door angry or upset. Instead, mercifully, it was June with a bottle. He must have looked pathetically grateful.

"Yeah, I'd say I guessed right," she said fondly, taking Peter's vacated seat at the table. 

"You always do. I'll make us some dinner--shouldn't drink on an empty stomach." But instead of busying himself in the kitchen he just sat heavily across from her and presented her with two heavy tumblers. 

"Later." 

He nodded and took his Scotch with pale hands. "Later."

**

It was less than a week before Peter was back at his flat, and Neal ended up on his back, hands digging into his hips as he was fucked to within an inch of his life. The man had a gift for sinning, considering how upright he was--Neal had no complaints on technique. Attitude, though...he wasn't relishing Peter's self-hatred, and the way it kept washing over into resentment of him. 

"Why are you so fucking beautiful?" Peter had ground out into his ear, angrily. There was no way to answer that, because Neal didn't feel beautiful.

He felt empty.

 

**

One Day Later  
Letter, from Neal to Eliot, in Neal's beautiful script.

**

Dear Eliot,

You'll probably think this is ridiculously old-fashioned. Who writes letters anymore? It would seem that I do, to you. For you. After you left, I had so many regrets. I don't regret my decision to stay, but I bitterly regret that I have to, that I may never see you again, that you may never really know what you mean to me. Don't they always say that life is too short to carry around regrets?

June was kind enough to agree to act as our intermediary (or mine, if you choose not to reply), since all of my correspondence and communications are monitored. If you decide to write back, address it to June and she will pass it to me.

That said, I don't want to frighten you. I expect nothing, and I demand nothing. I know what we have may not mean to you what it does to me, and that...that's fine. But I have to say these things. I hope only that they won't make you angry.

When we first met I was an impressionable kid, and you made one hell of an impression. In the time between Yemen and Paris, I found myself thinking of you so often that I was always a little embarrassed. I wished I'd found a way to tag along behind you. I wished I hadn't tried to play it so 'cool.' I told myself that it was pathetic, the crush I was nursing on you. What, this new lover couldn't make me feel what Eliot did? You stop sleeping with men unless you have to because none of them growled in your ear just like Eliot did? What a pathetic child I was, so damned needy I was fixated on a man I spent less than twelve hours with.

Then you came to me for help in Paris, and I thought my heart was going to just explode. I could take care of you this time, even out the ledger and feel like I'd learned a thing or two, that I could be valuable and not a liability. After two days of little domesticities and the best sex I have ever had, I knew it wasn't just a little crush. I knew I was in love with you. 

I was still so young and stupid, god. I think I studied you like you were a painter whose work I was about to forge the whole time we were together, looking for signs that you felt the same.  
I have to be honest, Eliot my love, I didn't see any. You took every opportunity to say it was your last weekend in Paris, that you had a huge job coming up, that you didn't know how long you'd be gone or where you'd go next. To me, it all sounded like 'please don't get clingy, kid.' 

So I tried, again, to be cool about it. To tell myself that it was this life I'd chosen, we'd both chosen, and that professionals don't let themselves get attached. You were a professional, and I was still a stupid kid with too many hormones and stars in my eyes, heart about to beat out of my chest like in some kind of cartoon. I let you go, hoping that you would come back to me after that job and yet somehow painfully sure that you wouldn't. 

I kept working, improving my craft, not knowing the first thing about how to find you, pretty sure you didn't want to be found. Won big, lost big, but you know that--it's the nature of the life. After months turned to years, I knew you wouldn't be coming back. I tried to live my life. I ended up back in New York, penniless and rebuilding from the ground up. I met Kate, told myself to grow up and get it right this time, and when I fell for her I tried to do it all 'properly.' 

The awful thing was (awful because I felt so unfaithful and dishonest) that you were never, ever far from my thoughts. You were the too-tender hole in my heart, and I just could never make myself stop poking it. 

I was going to propose to Kate. I had it all worked out. After that last job, the bond forgery, we were going to get married and just run. Maybe have a couple of kids, a little place in the south of France. I was tired already, tired of the life, even though I was so, so very good by that point. I wanted to be simple.

And then you came and warned me off. Another regret, not listening to you. I deserve everything that happened to me afterward, because what kind of fool doesn't listen to a warning from you, of all people? I guess the kind of fool who was desperate for an out. I think you can probably relate--when you're this close to gnawing off your own foot to get out of a trap, you don't want to listen to reason. You want to keep gnawing because it hurts and you've been at it so long and you just want that last tendon to snap, the last bit of flesh to rip and then you want to GO. 

Not to mention the fact that it was you. You, Eliot Spencer, years later, after I'd given up hope, standing in my awful little flat. I wanted to hate you for showing up like some kind of guardian angel and I wanted to hate myself for wanting you still, after all that time, when I was about to marry someone else.

(That...was a telling word choice on my part. Marry someone else. I could strike it through, with thick globs of ink until it was unreadable, but I won't. It stays.)

So I blustered and bluffed and kissed you anyway and god, no one, ever has kissed me like you kiss me. That hand at the back of my neck, the other curling around my hip or at the small of my back or cupping my face...I could write fucking sonnets about the way you kiss. 

Sorry, I got a little derailed on that. I clearly have a thing about you and kissing and what it does to me.

You were right. You were completely, utterly right and I was as wrong as wrong could be. I'm sorry if I caused you grief by not listening to you. I should have. I was nowhere near as clever as I thought I was, and Peter was more clever by half than I gave him credit for. Stupid mistakes are my specialty. 

Kate visited me in prison--did you know that? She did, even though I could tell she didn't want to, that she liked me in nice clothes and not a prison jumpsuit. I still made very sure that nothing that happened to me in there showed up anywhere she could see. I never told her. I never even hinted. I put a smile on my face and chatted and it was all so unbelievably empty. I hated to lie, but I couldn't conceive of telling her the truth.

Probably because at the heart of my truth, there is a huge place with your name on it. She never even knew I was bisexual, actually. I suppressed it pretty ruthlessly because it didn't fit with what I was trying to become. The long con I was playing on myself, the one where I didn't close my eyes and imagine your heavy, hard body pinning me to the bed, your calloused fingers leaving dark bruises on my thighs where you held them open (like you ever had to hold them open, like I ever failed to spread my legs for you). 

That makes me sound like a horrible person. I know it does. I miss her, truly, and I am looking for her, trying not to do anything stupid. I don't want her suffering because of me. But if I found her, I'm honestly not sure what would come next. I still can't run, for all of the reasons I gave you. 

I also realize that I've been dancing around the main purpose for this letter--to thank you for what you did for me when we were last together. You are the most beautiful man I have ever known, and if you hadn't come to me, I don't know that I would have ever been able to BE in my own body again. There are no instant cures, I get that. I still flinch when someone touches me from behind or startles me, but I'm not disgusted by my body anymore. I can feel something other than horror at the idea of being with someone. And that is all thanks to you. It really couldn't have been anyone else. I wouldn't have wanted it to be anyone else. 

Thank you. Above all, thank you for still wanting me. Thank you, that your first impulse when hearing I was out of jail was to come take me away. Thank you, that you understood why I couldn't. Thank you, Eliot. I know you're the kind of man who does not, ever, keep a tally or a ledger of what your friends owe you, but know that I do. I owe you more than my life; I owe you my sanity, my soul. The things you gave back to me when you held me in your arms.

I know that we can't wait for each other. Life, this life, makes its demands. I don't even know if you're still reading or if you tossed this mess of words in disgust when I got too emotional at the beginning. But you need to know that even if the stars never align, even if the fates are always unkind, I will always love you. Even if I must take lovers, even though we both almost certainly will, it doesn't change the fact that you are my heart. 

I hope that you'll write back. That we can keep this...romance? Affair? Friendship?...alive with letters. It's silly and old fashioned and probably a ridiculous liability, but I want a stack of your letters hidden in a false bottom to my sock drawer, bound with a ribbon. I want to hear about your life. I want to tell you about mine. I want us to each have a confidant who will never judge. I want us to be secure knowing that no matter what the world brings, there will always be one person who loves us without reservation.

If you do. Love me. (I think you might.)

Yours, always,

Neal

**

Letter from Eliot to Neal, one week later, in his aggressive penmanship.

**

Dear Neal,

I think you're right. I think I'm so fucking in love with you I can't stand it.

This helps. Keep writing. I'll learn how to do this, but make no mistake--the first time you're left to yourself for more than a couple of days, I will be there. I don't care what promises you made. I don't care who you're fucking.

I will be there, and I will keep being there.

Yours, really, forever,

Eliot

**

Neal. One month later, New York City. 

**

Neal held the slim stack of letters, neatly removed from their envelopes and tied with a dark blue silk ribbon, as he pulled out the topmost and folded it open. It had only been few days since he sent his own last letter to Eliot, but he knew that one would be coming in return. 

While Peter slept in his bed, sated and passed out cold as much from pleasure as avoidance of guilt, Neal re-read the letter he'd already memorized, running his fingertips over Eliot's rather aggressive penmanship and letting himself smile.

Dear Neal,

Sorry about this fucking stupid stationery. I had to borrow some from Sophie and it had flowers all over it. (By way of illustration, Eliot had drawn an arrow to the actually rather elegant floral scrollwork, writing 'See? What is this bullshit?' in the margins.) I got the crap beat out of me on this last job, and it took a few days till I could use my right hand again, so I'm real sorry I'm running behind. I'm fine, and I hope you didn't worry....


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal and Elizabeth spend some quality time together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't say enough about what all these wonderful comments have meant to me. Thank you all so much. I can't say I'll be updating this one on a weekly basis or anything, but look for more soon. Y'all are the best. 
> 
> Warning (if you need it)--there's HET ahoy.

Eliot and Parker, Boston, 2 months later

**

"Whatcha doin'?" Parker insinuated herself next to Eliot on the sofa, peeking over his shoulder even as she invaded the pillow fort he'd erected to keep his space...well, his space. 

"Jesus, Parker, I'm writing a letter and it's none of your business," Eliot growled, folding the top of the paper over the bottom. 

"Oooh, is it to Neeeealllll?" Her eyes sparked and she tried three times in thirty seconds to lift the sheets right from his hands. 

"What are you, twelve? Yes, it's to Neal, who else do I write to?" Eliot swatted her hands on every sneaky approach until she sat back with a harrumph.

"I just think it's cute is all, although I totally caught words like 'cock' and that's not so much cute as gross." Parker also didn't believe in keeping her voice down, and Hardison about choked on his orange soda.

"Oh, darlin', if you think that's gross..." Eliot's eyes flickered over to Hardison, who was trying very hard to a) act like he was not listening, and b) trying just as hard not to care that Parker might actually find his anatomy disgusting. Who the hell knew with Parker? "You should read the rest." 

"Can I?!" Parker perked up.

"NO!" 

**  
Elizabeth and Neal, New York City

**

Elizabeth answered the door in a pair of drawstring pants and a tank-top, dark hair piled messily on top of her head. In short, she looked gorgeous, just like she always did. Flashing Neal a conspiratorial grin, she asked, "Did you bring the goods?"

Neal, dressed down himself in a pair of jeans and an older, less-starched button down, grinned right back at her and passed her a slightly crumpled paper bag while still holding something behind his back. Seeing El never failed to raise his spirits. _Even though her husband's cheating on her with me. God, hopefully not for much longer._ Not that Peter was bad or anything, but it was past time to turn these separate duos into one threesome. 

"In that case, you can come in." She stepped back from the door and out of Satchmo's way as he barrelled forward to greet Neal. 

Dropping down to his knees, he passed up the bottle of wine while scritching the lab's ears and neck, getting a slobbery kiss for thanks. Peter hated it that Satchmo was so damn in love with Neal, but El thought it was hilarious. She nimbly snagged the wine and beat a retreat to the kitchen.

"Tell me this is for the cooks, not the dish!"

"Look at the label and see if you need to ask me again!" Neal laughed and stood back up with one last pet. It was a bottle June had given him several days ago, and he'd been showing manful amounts of restraint in not drinking it all by himself ever since.

"Holy hell, never mind. I'm uncorking this baby right now." This was their afternoon, cooking a meal for three for whenever Peter got out of his baseball game and made it home. A perfect cut of beef to braise in wine and the contents of the bag--gorgeous mushrooms from a local source that only sold at a farmer's market near Neal's--falling apart deliciously in the sauce.

"Good, because it's been a hell of a week and I want to get if not drunk, then at least two out of three sheets to the wind." Neal joined her in the kitchen and smiled self-deprecatingly. 

"You're an adorable drunk, so go for it. No shame." El was busily chopping garlic and onions, letting the bottle breathe only by power of distraction. 

"Adorable?!" Neal reached for a second cutting board and knife and started deftly peeling carrots. "Madame, I must protest."

"Last time we got drunk you curled up on the couch and recited Renaissance Italian love poetry at me and Peter both." 

"Ah, can you blame me?"

"...And Satchmo."

"He probably deserves it more than either of you. He doesn't make fun of me." Neal laughed and tidied carrot peels into the composting jar. 

Time passed as they worked together, laughing and passing by and around each other with a natural sort of rapport that most professional kitchens would envy. The bottle of wine disappeared and they'd just started number two when they took a well-deserved break outside on the patio. 

"Are you ever going to 'fess up to fucking my husband?" El had to be drunk to be quite that direct, and Neal nearly choked.

"Your, um...fucking...er." He made a desperate grab for his glass and drained it. Nope, that didn't help. "He wanted to tell you. Himself. Um. Because...we had this idea..."

El's eyebrow climbed. "Idea." Suddenly, she seemed barely tipsy, which just wasn't fair. 

"Ah...mmm...yes." His glass found its way to the patio table, and he managed a deep, steadying breath. "That maybe..."

"We could all just do it already?" El was a good actress when she wanted to be, and Neal could not read her to save his life. Disconcerting.

Not trusting himself to speak, he just nodded, hair flopping into his eyes. 

"And you two just got started a little early." 

"Peter's hard to...um. Manage." So to speak.

"That is one of the great universal truths." Her head cocked. "So really this was your idea, and you seduced my husband as step one."

"God, you make it sound horrible, and that wasn't my intention. Elizabeth, I adore you, and you're beautiful and brilliant and brave and wonderful..." _And oh God, say something._

"Relax." El sat back and let the corner of her mouth quirk up. "You're just the boy who wants to have his cake and eat it, too." Her shoulder shrugged, and the strap of the tank top slipped off, drawing Neal's eyes. 

"I always thought that was a stupid phrase. Like you should be punished for enjoying having something good. Like too much pleasure is bad." Neal drew his eyes from her breasts up to her eyes. 

"Me, too. I want the cake. I want to devour it. And I want to do it anywhere and anyway I want." This is the Elizabeth that Neal's only seen glimpses of, the strong woman who owns her sexuality and is proud of exactly how much she drives men crazy. "That's what I think, at least." 

Suddenly, Neal found himself squirming in his seat, half-hard and tongue flicking out over his lower lip. "But it would be wrong to start anything before Peter comes home." Obviously.

"Ohhh, no. You're going to come right here," she spread her thighs to make room for him to kneel on the flagstones, "and I'm going to kiss you. Minimum." Fair was fair.

That hint of command in her voice went right to Neal's gut, and he had to stifle a moan as he moved where she pointed, dropping gracefully to his knees with his hands resting on her thighs, thumbs stroking dangerously high as he leaned up to El.

Her small hands framed his face, and she just looked for a long, long moment before leaning down and meeting him in a kiss that was heedless and headlong, skipping that sweet exploratory phase and powering right along to indecent. It wasn't that it was artless or cruel, the kiss was just so fucking **hungry**. Neal let himself feel it, and it was a relief. If he were honest with himself, he'd been holding back from Peter and his self-hatred and guilt and resentful lust, and it felt so damned good to let himself unclench a little. 

Elizabeth was, if not **just** what he needed, really fucking close. 

When they came up for air, El had another long, long look at Neal, zeroing in on those unreal eyes. "You're beautiful."

"Says one of the most beautiful women I've ever met." His lips quirked, and he actually felt a blush creep up his neck. 

"Mmm, no sweet-talking me. You and Peter have had your fun; now it's my turn." That devilish look on her face went right to his balls, and the stern tone didn't hurt one bit. 

"Yes, ma'am. Could I make a suggestion on where to start the reparations?" The banter was comfortable, familiar, the two of them used to teasing each other in one way or another. His fingers trailed along the line of her pants, pulling the fabric slightly away from her smooth skin. 

"I like where you're heading with this." Her ass lifted up and she allowed him to pull down her pants, taking the delicate lace underwear with it. 

"Jesus." Neal leaned up for another kiss, letting Elizabeth bite his lip and turn his head to the side to mark him under the collar of his shirt. Finally she lost all patience for the making out, and hitched one leg up over the arm of the chair, groaning into Neal's mouth and pushing him down. 

Her scent was earthy and primal, and the dark curls were trimmed carefully. El was already so damned wet, and his tongue found her clit, teasing over it just briefly before ducking down to lave a long swipe from the base of her slit to just short of the hard little bud. The taste exploded over his tongue, and her low, hissed growl made it clear she wasn't in the mood for teasing. 

Neal made a low, pleased noise at her bitten-off whimper when he returned to her clit, flicking at the stiff flesh with the tip of his tongue, then lapping steadily. No, she was in no mood for a tease, and he wasn't going to do that to her. So he pressed a thumb just above her clit and then licked harder, rubbing with his thumb and then suckling steadily. This was an act that was easy to get lost in, and, like Neal had said before, he just understood the operating system. 

It seemed like no time at all before Elizabeth was clutching a fistful of his soft hair and arching up out of the chair, stifling her cries by biting her lip hard as she ground against his mouth and came. It was a hell of an orgasm, but Neal had a feeling about Elizabeth, so he slipped two fingers inside her slick heat and curled them up, rubbing at her sweet spot and flicking the very tip of his tongue against her oversensitized clit. She shuddered and her hips shot up again as the orgasm, just subsiding, crested again. 

When it was well and truly over, he sat back on his knees and helped her get herself to rights again. Elizabeth looked down at him and grinned wolfishly. "How did I know you'd be really, really good at that?" 

"Instinct?" Neal smiled and leaned up to offer a kiss, leaving her room to stop him that she didn't take. 

"Something like that," she murmured against his lips, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling him in closer, till his body was flush with hers. "With a mouth like that, I can see why Peter didn't want to wait." 

Neal smiled crookedly and shrugged a shoulder. "I may have...encouraged him."

"Played him like a fiddle, is what you mean." El's hand slid down his back to cup and squeeze his ass. "He may be hard to manage, but he's never really hard to get going."

"Tell me about it." His ass was still sore from two days ago. "Back to work, then?" Dinner wasn't going to cook itself. 

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't put it all on the back burner while I send you upstairs to strip naked and then fuck me senseless." El tipped his head back to bite lightly along the line of his throat. 

"Because you know very well that Peter would freak out in that terribly controlled way of his and make us both feel like naughty children even though it's nothing he hasn't done himself." Neal got to his feet and offered Elizabeth his hand. She stood all the way up to her tiptoes to kiss him.

"Hey, are you...here. More wine." The second bottle was already dangerously low. "Okay. So are you okay with all this? Call me crazy, but I've always had a feeling that you had someone else out there, someone who wasn't Kate."

"I'd say that line of questioning is...counterproductive. I'm here, and I'm with you and Peter. Unless you want this to be a one-time thing, of course." There was an ache in his heart as she asked, both from her innate kindness in asking to begin with and from the certain knowledge that she wouldn't really want the truth. A new letter from Eliot had arrived that morning, and the wound of separation felt very fresh indeed. 

"Uh huh. Counterproductive." Elizabeth bit her bottom lip and nodded slowly. "No, I don't want this to be a one-off. You're my friend, one of the best friends I've ever had. I wouldn't treat you that way." Like a disposable fuck. 

"And you're one of mine." Neal couldn't resist wrapping her in his arms and didn't particularly want to resist. "Now, should we feed Peter?"

"Mmm...we should. I have questions." 

"You could just wait a little while and see for yourself." Neal smirked as they made their way back into the kitchen to pick up where they'd left off. 

"I know, but...I dunno. Call me a pervert, but you telling me what my husband is like in bed with you is a huge turn-on." Elizabeth checked on the meat and adjusted the temperature of the oven downward. 

"We've only done it once in bed, for starters. I think bed freaks him out a little, makes it too real." Neal started putting together the ingredients for the apple torte he was making for dessert. 

"Or maybe he just can't wait for the bed. Are we talking over the kitchen table?" 

"Up against a wall, on the floor..." Neal was more uncomfortable discussing this than he'd anticipated, but he was careful not to let it show. 

"He's not too rough with you, is he?" Her eyebrow climbed up her forehead as she zeroed in on the truth despite him. She would have made a hell of a grifter.

"No, no. Nothing like that." He sighed and shrugged. "I think it'll be better now. It's just hard being someone's shameful little secret." 

"Oh boy." Cocking a hip against the counter, El looked at Neal over the rim of her wine glass. "Yeah, and he's been in denial over his attraction to men for a loooong time. And especially over his attraction to you. He wants to hate you so badly, but you're you, and he can't, and so it's harder." 

"That shouldn't make sense, but it does." Neal gave her a crooked little smile. 

"Welcome to the wonderful world of Peter. It's quite a ride."


	9. Pyrrhic Victories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I offer a massive mea culpa to fans of this series for how unbelievably long it took to post this. I'm still struggling with Neal and his feels for Eliot, which should show in what is surely the most awkward polyamory discussion of all time.

Neal, Peter & El, New York, a couple of hours later

**

The house smelled like heaven by the time Peter finally opened the door, returning from his baseball game with the guys reeking of triumph and jubilation. "It was a slaughter!" he announced happily, and Neal smiled at the boyish enthusiasm from his place on the couch with El. El, who had her feet in his lap while they watched The Maltese Falcon. 

"A slaughter? I heard on the radio they won by one point." In extra innings. El didn't start away from Neal, but she did slowly sit up, and both she and Neal were grinning in response to the infectious air of victory.

"One point does not a slaughter make," Neal pointed out teasingly, watching as Peter realized just how comfortable he'd been with his wife on the couch. "A Pyrrhic victory, maybe."

"Well, we did lose our starting pitcher in the seventh - it was brutal." Peter took off his jacket and hung it by the door, stepping fully into the living room. "Something smells good!" It was said with an air of false bravado, and Neal smiled reassuringly. Everything's fine. No need to worry. 

"We've been working all afternoon." El waved her half-empty wine glass expansively toward the kitchen. "It'd better smell damn good." 

"Is there anything I can do?" Peter was a disaster in the kitchen, but he always asked. El generally found some kind of task to set him to so he'd feel useful, but this evening she just nodded at the love seat across from the couch. 

"Nope, all done. Satchmo is already desperately hoping we all find it disgusting so he can have it all to himself." El might be a little drunk, still, but Neal figured she deserved it. This was as scary in its own way for her as it was for him. 

Neal reached down to absently pet the dog, who was lying curled up on top of his bare feet. Yes, they'd been making themselves very comfortable, thank you. "I think you're going to be sorely disappointed, big guy," he murmured, scratching behind the dog's ears.

"So how much day drinking has been going on, exactly?" Peter surveyed the two of them, their flushed cheeks and slight dishevelment. 

"Says the man who comes home smelling of gross ballpark beer. Go take a shower, and we'll put dinner on the table." El uncurled herself and padded over to press herself against Peter, scrunching up her nose long enough to kiss his cheek. 

"I don't know, I think he smells fine." Neal got up and gave Peter an experimental sniff as he went by on the way to the kitchen.

"Nobody asked you," El pointed out as she shooed Peter up the stairs and joined him in the kitchen, pulling the roast out of the oven and letting Neal examine it - perfect. 

"You nervous?" Neal murmured, leaning in to nuzzle just behind her ear. 

"I sort of feel like I might die. Whether of anxiety or lust, I have no idea. I'll keep you updated." She moved out of the way so that Neal could lift the roast onto a platter, ladle the mushroom sauce over it, and slice it. 

"Nothing has to happen tonight. I can just go home after dinner." Neal didn't like seeing her this way, unsure of herself. 

"No way, mister." El shook her head firmly, frowning when some of her hair fell out of its messy bun and moving to redo the whole thing. It caused her top to ride up, and Neal unabashedly stared. "We are continuing what we started outside, and there's no question about it. Okay?"

"Yes, ma'am." Neal wanted this, because it was the safest he could ever be - ensconced into their family, part of their lives, maybe even in their hearts. He gave a thought he couldn't afford to Eliot, and it made his heart ache in a way that was really quite counterproductive. _Keep those plates spinning. You'll be happy eventually._ "You know I really do care about you both, right?"

El looked up at him curiously from where she was assembling a salad. "Yeah, sweet boy. I know you do." 

Neal may have actually blushed. If she only knew how far from a sweet boy he really was, she would run screaming. Or would she? El wasn't exactly the fearful type.

"Would you believe that for a long, long time I hated even hearing your name?" She tossed the salad with the dressing, and then looked over at him, eyes crinkling as she smiled. "The whole time Peter was chasing you, it was Neal Caffrey, twenty-four seven." She shrugged. "Then I met you and realized what all the fuss was about."

The blush only deepened. "There's no fuss. I'm...easy. I promise." Easy to please, easy come, easy go. 

"Wait a second." El put the bowl on the table then went back into the kitchen to take Neal's face in both her small hands. "Are you scared, honey?"

Her kindness nearly broke something inside of him. And why not try to be honest, whenever he can? "A little. Yeah. I'm in kind of a precarious position, you know."

"Do you feel like we're taking advantage of you?"

"No. No, definitely not. You are both far, far too good for that kind of thing. I want to be here. I want this." That, too, was the truth, if only part of it. Neal felt downright virtuous. Or as virtuous as someone about to seduce two married people could feel.

"You'll tell me if that changes, right? Because I do care for you, and I know you haven't exactly had the easiest life, despite what Peter might think." How else would someone still so young have accumulated the skills that Neal had? That sort of expertise doesn't come from some cushy upbringing in the suburbs. 

"Of course I will. But it won't." Neal took both her hands and kissed her knuckles. 

Peter chose that moment to walk in, fresh from the shower and dressed in sweats and an old FBI tee shirt. He stopped short and looked at them. 

"So...this is a thing you do with my wife now?" Peter asked, voice dangerously even.

"Peter, this is a thing we do with Neal." El wasn't just going to stand there and let Neal take all the blame. "We were kind of hoping to feed you up before having this conversation."

"She knows, Peter. About us." Neal's heart trip-hammered in his chest, fight or flight (most likely flight) warring inside him. 

"And I'm not angry," El hastened to add. "In fact...I like the idea. I wish you hadn't started without me, but..yeah."

Peter stood stock still, one fist clenched at his side. "It's hypocritical to be jealous." He cleared his throat, obviously forcing the fist to release. "I know that. I just...this isn't the kind of thing we do. None of it." Not his infidelity, not Neal and El standing so close their sides were touching, not any of it. 

"I remember you saying something like that before, Peter." Neal's tone was careful, and his mind was whirling rather unproductively, refusing to come to a stop anywhere but 'oh, shit.' "But if everyone wants it, why not? No more sneaking around, no more lying. Just us, out in the open and honest." Honesty should appeal to Peter's sensibilities. 

"And why shouldn't I just ask you politely to go home right now? Call everything off?" Peter leaned back against the kitchen counter, but there was no part of him that Neal could call relaxed.

"Because it's not what you want." El stepped in, her bullshit meter clearly running at eleven right now. "And you know it. I know you wouldn't have cheated on me if you weren't seriously attracted to Neal. I've known you were for a long time. But you never stopped to consider that just maybe I was attracted, too."

Peter looked like a kid busted stealing a candy bar. "You're right. You're always right; it's very annoying."

Neal watched, then crossed his arms protectively over his chest. They might not realize they were talking about him like he was some kind of aberration, but they were. 

"Look...I. I don't mean to get between you two. I never did." Neal licked his suddenly dry lips, wishing he were just a wee bit more sober right now. "I will leave right now, if that's what you want, Peter. We can end it." 

El made a face at that, but it was Peter who surprised him, stalking across the kitchen and gripping him by his shoulders, tugging him for a claiming, harsh kiss. Neal melted against him, relief washing through his veins, and a familiar arousal churning in the pit of his stomach. 

He felt one of El's hands on his back, knew the other was on Peter's, and she was watching, rapt. Peter deepened the kiss, less ferocious but more hungry, and Neal let him in. Easy. He wriggled till Peter loosed his iron grasp on his shoulders, and he could put one arm around him and one around El, drawing them all in close. 

When Peter let him up for air, eyes dark and a little wild, it was El who turned his face and kissed him next, sweeter than before, as if to bring a counterpoint to Peter's rough passion. It was no less filthy, though, and Neal knew he'd won when heard Peter's groan. 

She finally released him, and he stood there, panting a little, eyes moving from one to the other. "Well. Whatever is or is not happening here, there is no way this dinner is going to waste."

El laughed and nodded, her bun bobbing adorably. "Damn right. We worked on this all day. Many bottles of wine have been sacrificed to the cause."

"She's right, Peter - can't let them die in vain." Neal nodded sagely.

"Okay..." Peter took a deep breath, his conflict written on his face. "I think we should eat, then."

The strained air didn't fully dissipate as they sat around the table, and Neal found he didn't have much of an appetite. El kept looking over at his mostly-full plate and then at him, but he just smiled and kept up his end of the stilted conversation about baseball and wine pairings. 

When they finally cleared away the last dish, they drifted toward the living room, Neal unconsciously choosing the farthest corner of the couch. He wasn't exactly accustomed to being the person in the room with no answers, smartass or otherwise. "So...let's just be honest here. I can only speak for myself, but I want both of you."

"Are you thinking long-term, or just tonight?" Trust El to be the direct one. Peter was in his armchair looking vaguely dyspeptic. 

"I...was hoping for more than one night, yeah. But for this to work...Peter, do you think you can handle seeing me with El?" That was the roadblock, written in big orange safety lettering with a cartoon skull underneath it.

"I can't lie. It makes me a hypocrite, but it's hard." Peter paused, brow furrowing. "At the same time, though, I liked what I saw. Before, in the kitchen."

"Right. Should we just take it slowly?" Neal fidgeted with the cuff of his shirt, eyes moving restlessly from one to the other. 

"As much as I want to whine about that, it's probably prudent." El reached across the length of the couch to put a hand gently over his, stopping the fidgeting. "And I have to ask - do you feel weird about this, because Peter has so much control over you?"

Ouch. She went right for the jugular, all in the pursuit of being fair and a decent human being. "I only feel weird to the extent that Peter feels weird. I'm good with this. Really. I haven't ever felt like Peter was pressuring me."

"I should hope not!" Peter snorted, before regaining his better self. "I mean, I really wouldn't want you to feel that way. It doesn't feel that way when it's just the two of us."

El groaned. "You know, just watching you two kiss drove me crazy."

"Above all else, I never want to come between you two." Neal turned his hand up and laced his fingers with El's. "What you two have is incredible. I just want...whatever you'll have of me."

"Oh, Neal." Before he knew it, he had a lapful of El, her mouth descending down onto his in a kiss that was very nearly chaste. "You should think better of yourself than that. Let us convince you you're worth more."

Neal's breath caught in his throat, his hands sliding up El's arms to her shoulders automatically as he tried and succeeded in hiding just how close to home she'd hit. Again. 

Peter rose from his chair to slide in next to him, his arm going around Neal's shoulders. 

"Yeah...yeah, she's right," he murmured before turning Neal's face gently and kissing him more kindly than he ever had before. It was nothing chaste, but nothing hard - open mouths and questing tongues. 

"Or we could all neck like a bunch of teenagers," El commented, one corner of her mouth quirking up in a smile, and with a flick of her wrist her hair was down.

"Uh oh, that means she's about to get serious," Peter stage-whispered against Neal's lips, before El claimed them for her own kiss. Something about seeing the two of them together, like this, with him included, made some more of Neal's anxiety melt away. Now it was equal. 

He relaxed into the rhythm of it, using his free mouth to kiss and carefully bite a path up El's shoulder to just behind her ear. It was impossible to ignore how hard her nipples were through that tank top she was wearing, but he managed to still his wandering hands before touching. He'd never 'necked' in his life, but he was fairly sure that going right for a nipple was not part of the process.

She ground against him and moaned into Peter's mouth, but then she stopped herself like she'd suddenly remembered the rules of necking, too. Peter pulled away and sighed dramatically. "You two...really are like a couple of teenagers. Zero self control." 

El stuck out her tongue at him, before promptly inserting it into Neal's mouth in a particularly filthy kiss. Peter watched in fascination, his hand moving with absent familiarity to Neal's thigh, high up, just ahead of El's thighs. "You look gorgeous together." 

Neal tangled a hand in El's hair, and when she let him breathe again he lolled his head to the side and grinned at Peter. "Yeah? I've always thought the same about you and El."

"And I won't even get into how sexy it is to watch you two kiss." Especially when it wasn't rough or claiming. 

"Should we shamelessly pander to the lady?" Neal asked, leaning in and initiating a kiss, cupping the back of Peter's head with his other hand. 

Peter was breathing hard by the time it ended, eyes dark. "If this is just supposed to be a makeout session, maybe it's time we stopped."

El legitimately pouted and slid off of Neal's lap. "It hardly seems fair to send Neal home in this state." After all, she and Peter could just fuck it out of their systems.

"I suspect I'll survive." But when Neal thought about going home alone to his loft, it made him ache inside a little. Like a worrisome hole in his heart that he couldn't, didn't want to, put a name to. 

"If you say so." Peter was quick to accept him at his word. For once. Neal tried not to think about that, either. 

Neal stood and discreetly adjusted himself. "I'll call you guys tomorrow, okay?"

Suddenly, he had an armful of El, hugging him tightly. "You better, yeah."

This time, his smile was genuine as he wrapped his arms around her, inhaled her scent for a long moment. "Count on it."

She released him and nodded sagely. "Then you'd better, mister. Be careful on the way home."

He mock-bowed to her. "Yes, ma'am." Peter hadn't moved from the couch, but Neal could see he was in just as sorry a state as he was. Only this time, he didn't say anything about Neal going straight home, or to stay there, or anything that he normally would. Neal breathed an inward sigh of relief. 

This was going to work. 

**  
Letter from Neal to Eliot, the next morning

Dear Eliot,

Well. I think I've got everything worked out around here, and I'll be safe while I'm stuck in New York. Two square miles of New York. You get the picture. 

Who am I kidding? I wish I were up for some kind of long, flowery letter to you (I know you like it, don't even try to say you don't), but I'm just not. I feel wrung out and strange and I miss you so much that it aches.

The weekend after next, Elizabeth and Peter are going to a family wedding upstate. I'll be alone. Please come, if you can. I know your work is unpredictable, but I feel like I'm going to explode if you don't touch me soon.

Yours, always,  
Neal

**  
Letter from Eliot to Neal, three days later

Neal,

I will be there. Count on it. And you never have to say 'please' to me, okay? You don't sound good. 

I miss you too. Something awful.

Yours,   
Eliot

**

Eliot, Parker & Hardison, Boston

"You're going to go see him?" Parker bounced in her seat, on top of the counter. No matter how many times Eliot growled about it not being sanitary, it was still her favorite perch. 

"Yeah, don't make a thing out of it." Eliot shook his head, wondering for the already nth time why he'd told them at all.

"Hey, we could come along. Come over one evening, make y'all drag your horny asses outta bed and cook us some dinner." Hardison innocently leaned next to Parker.

Parker clapped her hands in delight at the notion, and Eliot knew he was doomed. "I want to meet him!"

Eliot clapped a long-suffering hand to his forehead. "Okay. Okay. ONE evening. That's all you get. Like two hours, max."

He'd have thought he just gave Parker the codes for the Louvre security system overrides. 

"What the fuck am I even thinking?" he growled, stalking off to do something productive, like hit a punching bag.

He heard them high-fiving as he walked away, hiding a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And next chapter, I cheat and have Eliot come visit.


	10. Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot comes to visit, and they entertain Parker and Hardison. This is mostly shameless sex and bantering.

Neal, Peter & El, NYC, one week later

**

A week more of 'taking it slowly' looked a lot like torture. Every night, Neal came to the Burkes', and every night they had dinner and ended up on that damnable couch. The benefit was that Peter wasn't rough with him anymore, his mouth as tender as perhaps he'd always wanted it to be. Little by little, it seemed to Neal that Peter was allowing himself to acknowledge that he both desired Neal, and that that desire wasn't a shameful thing. 

By Thursday night, they were all straining the bounds of their collective self-control. Somewhere amongst all the kissing and stroking and stifled moans, El had decided to hell with it and pulled her shirt up and off. The bra disappeared after Peter did nothing more than give an appreciative groan. Neal was achingly hard, but she was straddling Peter's lap at the moment, grinding down on his erection and leaning over to kiss Neal. 

All she was wearing then was one of her tailored work skirts, rucked up high around her gorgeous thighs, and everyone in that room could smell just how aroused she was. Her nipples were hard enough to cut glass, and there was a fierce look in her wide-pupiled eyes. Clearly, someone had been pushed to the breaking point.

Ordinarily, this was the point at which Neal would force himself to leave, but a look from Peter had him staying put. He feasted his eyes on El, breaking the kiss so he could look his fill. Slowly, he brought a hand up to cup one of her breasts, flicking his gaze up to meet Peter's as he squeezed the firm, generous flesh, fingertips brushing a nipple. 

"Yessss..." El hissed and threw her head back, her fingers finding Neal's hair and gripping it to guide his mouth to Peter's. When they kissed, an inch from her gasping mouth, she pressed her hips down hard. They had to come up for air at some point, and Neal and Peter exchanged looks. Neal slithered from where he'd become sandwiched between them, and stood shakily behind El, moving her hair out of the way and baring the nape of her neck to his mouth.

Peter descended onto one nipple, suckling firmly and tugging lightly with his teeth, while Neal reached around from behind to take the other between his fingers, pressing and rolling the tight flesh as she cried out softly. She was so, so close and it would seem that tonight was the night El finally got what she needed from this little threesome. 

"You wanna know what it's like when he fucks me?" Neal murmured against her skin, words coming between gentle bites to her neck, shoulders. Nothing that would leave a mark. "It's hot, and raw, and his nice, big cock spears so deep into me. I writhe for him like a slut, did you know that?"

If the choice of words came out strange, it was only to Neal's ears, because all El could do was whisper back, "The prettiest slut." Even Peter gasped at that. "He feels so good when he's inside, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, gorgeous. So good." El shivered in their arms, grinding down even harder. So close. "C'mon, yeah...we want you to come for us. Just like I do when he's got me pinned down, my hand on my cock, desperate to..."

And that was as far as he got before her orgasm hit her hard, making her hips buck so hard she nearly fell off Peter's lap until Neal's hands went to her hips and drove her forward onto her husband again. Peter took her into his arms, letting her head come to rest on his shoulder when the spasms finally passed. 

"Is this...still taking it slow?" Neal honestly didn't know, and now that the moment was over he wasn't sure if Peter's possessive streak would resurface, or if they'd all just go upstairs. He wasn't even sure which option he would prefer. 

"I don't know," Peter murmured, stroking El's hair as Neal sat back down on the couch, reflexively reaching for his shirt and sliding it back onto his narrow frame. "But I do think it's probably far enough for tonight."

Not exactly the possessive rage monster, but not ready to commit yet, either. He'd take it. "Right. I'll head home, then." Because El was melted, and probably not really in any mood to listen to her husband. And as much as both he and El were uncomfortable with the fact, Peter was definitely in charge here. "I really hope you two have fun at the wedding."

At that, the fog seemed to dissipate and El pushed off Peter's chest, casting around for her own abandoned shirt to pull on, as if she might be feeling a little awkward about her own lack of control. "Hey..." She got off Peter's lap and intercepted Neal before he could hit the door. "That was amazing. Thank you." She lifted up onto her toes to kiss him goodbye, long and lingering. "You gonna be okay the next couple of days? You know you can call us, right?"

"I'm a big boy. I'll entertain myself. Just have fun and think of me, okay?" Neal hugged her hard. Peter hadn't moved from the couch, but he was watching Neal and Elizabeth intently. He looked relieved that she was doing the emotional work, and not him.

"Like we ever stop." El squeezed him tightly one last time, then parted so that he could put on his jacket and leave. On the other side of the door he took a deep breath of the cool fall air, still hard, but at least it was fading rapidly. By the time he got home, his arousal was a general buzz, a hot roil in his belly that he could ignore in favor of taking a long shower. 

Eliot was coming tomorrow, and he wanted to wait. There wasn't much in his life he had control over, and these days his body wasn't even his own. But this, this small sacrifice, this was still his to give. 

**

The Next Evening, Eliot & Neal, NYC

**

Neal paced the apartment restlessly, excited and tense, with butterflies swarming in his stomach. He was wearing a fitted tee shirt and jeans, barefoot on the wood floor. Why wear clothes that would be hard to get off, after all? 

Occasionally (okay, constantly), he found his steps carrying him near the door, listening for the footfalls of heavy boots coming up the stairs. Peter had left early for the wedding, and he'd been home alone since the early afternoon. The apartment sparkled, the sheets were clean, there were provisions in the fridge for a small army. Everything was ready. And yet he paced. 

Finally, finally he heard the boots on the stairs, just like he'd imagined, and he opened the door before Eliot could even knock. The man looked...perfect. Just fucking perfect. His hair was loose and down to his ridiculously broad shoulders, and he was wearing a flannel shirt over a tee and jeans and those big clompy boots of his. 

Neal tried to find the shame in being so eager, but he couldn't. He just reached out and grabbed Eliot by his shirt, dragging him in the last couple of steps. Eliot grinned and shut the door behind him, dropping his bag and taking Neal into his arms in one smooth motion. 

The butterflies flew away when their mouths met, when those strong arms encircled him, and god kissing Eliot Spencer was the easiest thing in the entire world. The kiss was hot, intense, with one of Eliot's big hands cupping the side of his face and the other sliding down to the small of his back as he was pulled into a tight embrace. The world faded and biology was a cruel mistress because eventually they had to come up for air. 

"Hey, beautiful..." Eliot began, voice hoarse.

"God, I've missed you..." Neal said at the same time, fingers still tightly wound in Eliot's shirt like this was just another installment in his never-ending daydreams about what this moment would look like, feel like. 

They laughed and kissed again, because really, they knew they were ridiculous, and Eliot carefully backed him farther into the room, away from the door. "Missed you, too, sweetheart." Eliot untangled Neal's hands from his shirt and kissed his palms, one after the other. 

The gesture, so simple and sweet, undid Neal completely. He took back his hands reluctantly, and then stepped away just far enough to pull his shirt over his head and drop it on the floor. The days of wondering 'will he still want me?' or 'does he still think I'm beautiful after all I've done?' were gone. He knew he was wanted, and even if he didn't the look in Eliot's eyes would convince him. He still, after all these years, gazed at him like he was something precious, something to be treasured. Cherished. 

Eliot stroked the backs of his fingers down Neal's chest, ending at the top of his jeans and using the waistband to tug him back in close again before just lifting him up bodily. Neal grinned into the next kiss, and let his long legs cross Eliot's waist as he was carried to the bed, and laid out like a gift. 

"How are you so fucking perfect?" he asked, and Neal had to laugh. "What? You are." Eliot began stripping off his clothes, quick and perfunctory, but his eyes never left Neal.

"Because I thought the exact same thing about you when I opened that door." Neal wriggled out of his jeans - he hadn't bothered with underwear - and lay unashamedly, unabashedly naked for his lover to look his fill. 

"We're pretty pathetic." But Eliot was smiling that secret little smile of his, and Neal just laughed. It felt so good to laugh. To have no angles, no sharp edges. Just this beautiful simplicity. He held out both hands and Eliot crawled atop him, finding his mouth for another easy, deep kiss. It was so shivery-good that Neal wrapped his legs around the backs of Eliot's thighs and ground up against him, desperate and not caring if Eliot saw. This first time was not going to last, and that didn't matter either. It wasn't performance art, it was fucking. 

"Jesus fucking Christ..." Eliot reached into the nightstand where he knew damn well Neal kept the lube, then he slicked his fingers messily. Neal watched his every motion hungrily, eyes huge and pupils blown, and he was glad beyond words when Eliot took him into his arms again, kissing him and sliding those fingers across Neal's grasping hole. He needed that, this first time - Eliot on him, closer than close. "Always so fucking ready for me."

"Always...always." Neal shuddered and pressed down, trying to grab at the teasing fingers, until one slowly pressed inside him. Eliot's fingers were so thick and calloused, and they felt so good stretching him. He immediately pressed down, opened up. "God, just want you in me. Now."

"Shhh, darlin', not gonna hurt you." Neal may have little care for his own well-being, but Eliot had enough for both of them. He pulled away from Neal just enough to watch those big blue eyes and added a second finger. He found no resistance at all, just the hot, clingy flesh begging for more, more, always more. 

Neal was somewhere past coherent thought by this point. All he knew was that this was enough, and he'd get what he wanted, craved, with every fiber of his being. Eliot would take care of him. It was a universal truth, one that he trusted beyond all else. Maybe it was the only thing he trusted. 

He sobbed with relief when Eliot slicked up his cock and pushed inside him, eyes practically rolling back in his head when Eliot bottomed out, filled him up gloriously, perfectly. Eliot may have been a big man in every respect, but he just fit, right there, and Neal rolled his hips, gasping at the way it made his aching cock rub against Eliot's belly. 

And then Eliot was using one hand to cup Neal's forehead, sliding the hair back and holding him tight, his hips finding a rhythm that wasn't intended to tease. Neal cried out when Eliot hit his prostate almost from the first stroke, and just kept on doing it. Eliot was trembling atop him as hard as he was, as if this was some balm for his soul, too. Some ineffable rightness that lay on top of them like a heavy blanket.

"I love you," Neal choked out, his hands scrabbling at Eliot's broad back and leaving thoughtless blunt lines of white in passing. "Please, I love you so much."

"Fuck...I love you, too, darlin'. More than any fucking thing..." In this or any other world. Eliot worked his body but that became background noise to the words that lay heavy on their lips. It was one thing to write it down, commit it to ethereal paper and ink that would one day fade. This, though. This was reality. Their reality. 

Reality was ecstasy. Neal bucked up so hard that if he were any lighter, Eliot might have been dislodged, and the spasm of his climax echoed in his whole clenching body as he came all over their bellies, still trying to drag Eliot deeper. Eliot was ordinarily fairly quiet when he came, but this time, he bellowed and his hips stuttered as he lost the rhythm entirely, filling Neal so perfectly that all Neal could do was hold on tightly.

When the spasms finally died, Eliot stayed buried in Neal, pressing their foreheads together. "Different now, yeah?"

"Yeah, baby." Something in Neal felt a need to comfort Eliot, to stroke his hair, to wrap him even closer in his long arms and legs, making a cage Eliot obviously had no desire to escape. "Didn't think...didn't know..."

"Me either." Eliot managed a weak chuckle and kissed him again, messy and slow. "Feels good to finally say it."

"It does. Feels right." In that moment, Neal could forget that Eliot would leave Monday morning in the grey pre-dawn, gone for who knew how long. He could just be here, exist here, with that world a very long way away.

**

Eliot, Neal, Parker & Hardison, NYC, the next night

**

If Neal's honest, the day passed in a bit of a blur. He and Eliot just. Couldn't. Stop. Right now, he was pleasantly achey and should by all rights be incredibly satisfied. But here he was, in his kitchen, sucking Eliot's cock with dinner half-prepared, like a starving man and Eliot was the buffet. 

He had no way of knowing that ordinarily, if Neal were literally anyone else, Eliot would be shooing him out of his kitchen, possibly at knife point. 

Instead, Eliot had both hands in Neal's freshly washed, still damp hair, his head thrown back as Neal coaxed orgasm number...well, they weren't keeping track, but at least five...out of him. He was pulling no punches, bringing out all his considerable skills to play to please this man he loved so much. In a matter of minutes, Eliot was gripping his hair a little tighter and coming hard. Neal slithered his mouth up to catch the last few drop so he could stand and share them in a messy kiss. 

"Never gonna get the tuna seared at this rate," Eliot grumbled adorably, and they were smiling against each other's mouth. "You and that mouth."

"You and that being irresistible," Neal countered, finally pulling away to let Eliot put himself to rights and wash his hands before continuing the dinner prep. Eliot harrumphed good-naturedly and told Neal that while he was an excellent cook, tonight was as much a gift to him as anything and he should just laze around decoratively drinking wine. 

"What should I know about Parker and Hardison? I mean...I'd hate to leave a bad first impression on your friends." Considering that he'd never met any of them before, and that he had those butterflies in his stomach again. 

"I...don't know? Parker is crazy and Hardison is a genius." Eliot shrugged, and his hands moved deftly over the large cutting board. 

"When you say crazy...what exactly do you mean?" Not that it put him off, goodness knew he was acquainted with many people with dubious grasps on sanity.

"If I had to guess, it's a healthy dose of autism spectrum plus full-blown kleptomania. She'll say literally anything on her mind, and steal things without even thinking about it, so I'd put away anything you don't want lifted. In a lot of ways she's...weirdly innocent. She'll probably ask you questions that'll make you blush to your toes, but she doesn't mean anything by it." Eliot considered briefly. "But she knows how I feel about you, and to her that means you're already part of her family. It can be intense."

"Right. I don't have much in the way of things, so I'm not worried about that. And if she asks me overly direct questions, I'll just answer her." Neal shrugged. He wasn't shy about Eliot. Not in the least. 

"Hardison keeps her in balance a lot of the time. And..so do I, I guess. Having a mission in life has done a lot for her." 

"Sounds to me like she's found the place she's meant to be. I guess I can admit to feeling a little jealous." Neal would like a family like that. A mission like that. Hell, he'd be Eliot's house husband if he could have even a fraction of that kind of belonging. 

"I guess then that I can admit to you that I would still take you away from everything to join us if you only said the word. You'd be safe, I swear that." Eliot hadn't given up. Three and a half years felt like forever every day. 

"I know, but I gave my word, and I'm trying to learn how to abide by that. No matter what." Neal was tempted, god was he tempted, and he took a healthy swallow of his wine. "I just hope that family is still there for me when I'm free."

"I will be. No matter what might happen to the team, I'll be here." When Eliot said it like that, like it was pure fact and nothing would stand in his way, Neal believed him.

The knock at the door startled them out of their conversation even though they'd been expecting it. Eliot wiped his hands and he and Neal went to the door together. Neal opened it to find a tall, athletically built young man around his age, wearing what he would have to call geek chic, and a tiny blonde woman dressed like she might be called out to do a second story job at a moment's notice. 

The tiny blonde woman threw herself into his arms with a squealed "Neal!" and he barely caught her. 

"Parker!" he exclaimed right back. The hug was fierce but very brief, and she shimmied past him into the flat, leaving him face to face with Hardison. "Hi, I'm Neal. It's really nice to meet you." He held out his hand, and got a handshake before he was pulled in for what he could only call a bro hug. 

"Nah, man, I'm really glad to meet you, too. Everybody calls me Hardison, but I actually have a first name. Alec." He sounded like maybe he got tired of being barked at by his last name by his dysfunctional but affectionate family. 

"Alec, then." Hardison released him, and Neal was a little shaken by the enthusiastic greeting. He had no way of knowing how fond and protective they'd become of him during the prison job. Eliot rolled his eyes. 

"So this is them. I'm going to go back to cooking. You can show them around. I uncorked another bottle of wine, you're gonna need it." Eliot went back to the kitchen, and Neal found Hardison not at all surreptitiously looking around the flat in awe.

"Man, where's your tech? Your TV, your laptop, your phone...any of it?" Of course it would be the first thing the hacker noticed. 

Neal shrugged. "Sorry - I just read and sculpt and paint in my free time." He added as an afterthought, "I do have a laptop, but I mostly use it for watching movies."

"You're a lot prettier than your pictures." Parker was already making for the terrace, so they followed her, and Neal nearly had a heart attack when she jumped right onto the parapet, sitting down there swinging her legs over nothing but air.

Alec shook his head and sighed. "Nah, you get used to it. Whatever Parker has, it's the opposite of acrophobia. Acrophilia. Something."

To distract himself, Neal focused on the last statement she made. "You've seen pictures of me? I didn't think Eliot was the sharing photos kind."

"He didn't. We're just really nosey." Parker looked back over her shoulder and smiled brilliantly. "We approve, by the way."

Neal had to laugh. "I'm so glad I meet your standards. Now, if only I were available." 

"You totally could be." Hardison was standing next to Parker on her other side, obviously fighting a desire to grip onto her belt, just in case. "I mean, Parker could jimmy that thing off you in three seconds flat, and I could make it tell the feds you're in freakin' Bora Bora. Keep 'em running all over the globe after you."

Somehow, miraculously, they both had the tact not to mention the prison job, or any of its implications. 

"I know, I have no doubt in your skills, either of you." Neal felt a pang in his gut, the one that always accompanied this impossible choice he'd made. Was it really just fear that kept him here? But wasn't what he'd experienced enough to make any sane human being fear?

"He's made his choice." Eliot appeared with three glasses of wine in his big hands, handing one each to Parker and Hardison, and keeping the third for himself. Neal had barely taken a sip of his since they'd arrived. There was a finality in his tone that the other two apparently recognized well. The matter was being dropped. 

From that point on, the evening was actually delightful. Parker eventually came down and sat at the table like a big girl, trying with evident curiosity every course Eliot put in front of them. He'd pulled out all the stops, despite the constant distractions, and Neal was blown away at just how good the man was in the kitchen. 

"Aw, man. I'm jealous. You never cook just for us like this." Hardison dug into his seared ahi tuna steak like a starving man. 

"No? When you aren't working, do you just go your separate ways?" Neal ate at a measured pace, but he was just as ravenous. 

"Sometimes, but Eliot is always the one being Mister Mysterious. He raises his own food in a rooftop garden, has more money than god like all of us, but he drives this piece of shit truck..." 

"Hardison, do not disrespect the truck." Eliot was grinning though. "Do I disrespect Lucille?"

"Only every time you get into her. You're all like 'it smells like chips and sweat' and 'can I just get you a fuckin' air freshener?' all the damn time."

"Lucille is...a vehicle?" Neal hazarded a guess. "At least, I really hope she is."

"Lucille's my baby. My van. Where I work all my magic." Hardison makes some keyboardy motions with his hands in between bites. 

"And where he downloads Doctor Who," Parker added.

"I have no idea what that is," Neal confessed, triggering a wide-eyed stare from Hardison and a rapid-fire list of geeky shows that Neal had to admit he'd never seen. 

"That's it. When you do get outta here, you and me are having a marathon. Y'all can just put down your paintbrush and your hoe or whatever and let me take the wheel." Alec shook his head and grumbled about normal people good-naturedly for the rest of the meal. 

"I really like Doctor Who, actually. It's funny." Parker shrugged.

"You let him brainwash you?" Eliot accused.

"I have to do something when you're off being mysterious or visiting your boyyyfriennnd." She singsonged the last word. 

"Damn right, he's my boyfriend. What are you, twelve?" Eliot's grumbles, Parker's sly grins, and Hardison's banter were immensely entertaining to Neal. He stepped in where he could, but mostly he just enjoyed listening to them. It felt good, like he'd always imagined family would.

After dessert, they sat around the table and talked for at least another hour, and Neal actually blushed a little when Eliot leaned over to kiss him as he went for another bottle of wine. Naturally, he was teased for it. 

Before they left, he found Parker shamelessly lifting the cloth covering his current painting in progress. It wasn't a forgery - for once it was his original work. It was dark, sad, filled with longing. One got the sense of a man trapped far from a speck of light, striving forward toward it through a miasma of shame and sheer desperation. 

She dropped the cloth and hugged him hard, but didn't say a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're guessing that there's another at least partial Eliot chapter after this one, you're not wrong :) It's still early on Saturday night, and they're not going to waste a minute of their time.


End file.
